Screenland (Nov 1937-Apr 1938)

Three darling daughters of the studios take the pause that refreshes by perching between hikes! Jane Bryan, Jane Wyman, and Mary Maguire are the pretty railbirds presented in the vivacious view on the left. only thing I ever heard her say was in the ladies' lavatory. (The one on the fourth floor of the W riters' Building at Paramount is very small.) I bumped into her when I was going out. She said, "My, but it's congested in here!" Ever since I have been trying to decide whether or not it was intended to be clever. But the life of a celluloid secretary is not always so disappointing. There are story conferences. After five weeks of work Mr. Hose (Hater of story conferences) to_ whom I was assigned, and his collaborating team, Mr. Nih (New in Hollywood) and Miss Atga (Anxious to get ahead) turned in the first rough draft of a script. Something was wrong with it, said the producer, Mr. Mitta (More intelligent than the average). He did not know Just what, but definitely there was something wrong. Consequently the following Sunday a story conference was to be held at his house. All concerned were to be present. This included the director, Mr. Abow (Abstaining because of wife) and Miss Enigmatic, the producer's secretary, and myself. The two secretaries were to be prepared to take notes and possibly retype the entire script. The conference was to start at ten o'clock. I came at eleven. A Filipino butler took my things and showed me into the living room. It was a large room, a very large room, with Persian rugs, heavy brocade drapes and the furniture Italian Renaissance, ornately carved Spanish, and comfortable American. At the far end, before a fireplace in which was burning a four-foot log, sat the biggest Great Dane I have ever seen and all the story conference participants with the exception of Mr. Hose, who had not yet arrived. What actors and actresses would best portray the characters in the film was the subject of discussion. "I'd like her in the picture," Mr. Mitta was saying. "But she's so much trouble. Have to keep a nurse on hand to sober her up." I spotted my typewriter and the supplies on the grand piano and went over and got a notebook and several already-sharpened pencils. I sat a short distance from the others near a low table piled high in Roman carelessness with fruits, nuts, and sweets. Mr. Hose arrived. "Only chance I had to talk to my lawyer about my divorce," he explained as he joined the group. (Although he was not living with his wife and had no intention of getting a divorce, this was a beautiful alibi. It always worked and everyone was always sympathetic. I had heard him use the same excuse several times.) "Now we can get down to business," said Mr. Mitta, utterly delighted with the assembled group. "Before we start, would anyone like a Martini?" "None for me," said Abow, the director, an old-time Mack Sennett man. Everyone else, including the two secretaries on the payroll at time and one-half — for it was Sunday — accepted. The Martinis were served and work began. The script was to be gone through, page for page, and each point analyzed in an effort to find the lost link of the story. Mr. Mitta started reading. The first fade-out was reached with the third Martini and no criticism. "We're progressing splendidly," said Mr. Mitta, as he put down the script. "Now I think we can have a spot of lunch. We'll just have to take pot luck today because Mrs. Mitta is down at Palm Springs and I'm rather baching it." Mr. Abow, who had been restlessly pacing the floor during the reading of the first sequence, was the first to reach the wrought-iron fence, behind which were drawn portieres and the dining room. Mr. Mitta pulled a cord, the portieres fell back, the wrought-iron fence swung open, and we all went into lunch. It was a simple little meal consisting of assorted cold meats and chicken, cheeses, halved avocados with French dressing, hamburgers (yes, hamburgers), fruit salad, ale. Guinness stout, and coffee. At its conclusion Mr. Mitta suggested that we have a romp in the patio with the dog. ' We romped. We had to. All our salaries were being charged against Mr. Mitta's picture. The Great Dane turned out to be an affectionate creature, quite fond of .standing on his hind legs and caressing one and all with his fore-paws. After we had all romped to the Dane's partial satisfaction we turned to the living room, our respective places, and the second sequence. "How about a Scotch and soda to pick us up a bit?" asked Mr. Mitta. Everyone but Mr. Abow, who seemed more restless than ever, welcomed the suggestion. Mr. Hose was almost cheerful. Miss Atga made endless mouths and eyes at our host. And the bewildered look in Mr. Nih's eyes was growing. We peacefully digested the second sequence. But the third, with of course another Scotch and soda, was really exciting. Everyone talked at once and agreed with nobody. It was becoming more and more obvious that there was definitely something wrong with the story. Miss Enigmatic, Mr. Mitta's secretary, and I even made a few criticisms though we had yet to put symbol to notebook. During the fourth sequence Mr. Hose began to be directly rude to Miss Atga and Mr. Nih, whom he had grown to hate during the past five weeks, and I noticed Mr. Abow with a scotch and soda in his hand. (His wife divorced him a month later.) The Great Dane dozed fitfully. "It certainly shows what can be done when you settle down to serious work," said Mr. Mitta, glowing with pleasure as he began the fifth sequence. "Mitta," interrupted the no longer restless Mr. Abow, "remember when we made 'Desert Cinderella,' the time we had getting Alister Stair on a horse?" Mr. Mitta chuckled. "It wasn't a bad scene, though, when we got through with it." Between them they told the story. And many more stories. All I remember about them was that they were screamingly funny. The Filipino butler brought in a tray of hors d'oeavres. Mr. Mitta mixed up another batch of Martinis. I looked at my watch. It was seven. Miss Enigmatic and I were now on double time. Dinner was a symphony and jazz battle of food, wines, and voices. At its crescendo, Mr. Nih, in a loud voice which no one but myself heard and I did not think necessary to answer, asked: "Where am I!" Then, apparently shocked by the sound of his voice, he subsided into silence and spoke not a word the rest of the evening. (When the script was eventually finished Mr. Nih demanded and got a leave of absence.) Of the fifth sequence there is not much to be said. At eleven o"clock Mr. Mitta reached the final fade-out. He still felt — although we had done a splendid day's work — that there was something wrong with the story. Yes, definitely wrong. We were dismissed. Haggard and ravaged Mr. Hose came into the office the next morning at the unheard-of hour of nine-thirty. "Get Mitta on the phone. Quick!" he said. "If I have to give up my fifteen hundred a week, yesterday's was my last story conference," he continued vehemently as he waited for the connection. "Had nightmares all night long." Then into the phone : "Hello. Mitta. Hose. Say,_ I think I've found out what's wrong with the story. Yes. Came to me last night in bed. The heroine should be the villain." Even more positively: "I said the heroine should be the villain!" Slight pause, and then in an elated tone, "You agree !" Mr. Hose winked triumphantly^ at me while he listened. Abruptly his joy left him. "All right," he said in a dead voice. He put down the receiver and turned to me. "Phone Atga and Nih. Tell them as soon as they can to get down to Mitta's office. We're having another conference."