The self-enchanted : Mae Murray : image of an era (1959)

"You'd be better with dark powder, but you're a kid, you can get by." "I feel like myself; this way, I can do better." But she never did know for sure what she was expected to do. She didn't even know when it was they broke for lunch. They'd be rehearsing, then abruptly Melford would walk away — it might just mean he was angry — and she'd stand around waiting for more to happen, not wanting to appear dumb. Not until Dorothy Reid came onto the set, bringing a basket with Wally's lunch, did Mae know for sure. Her maid came every day too, with a thermos of soup, a sandwich and coffee. After lunch she'd curl up in her dressing room and go to sleep. A rude summons wakened her, Melford's errand boy pounding on the door; and when she'd get to the set it was "Well, good morning, Miss Murray. I hope we're not disturbing you. You were out late last night perhaps?" Suppressed laughter. "Walking in the hills," she said, and there was more laughter. What did the others do at night? Charlie Rosher told her they went to see rushes. So one night she slipped into the projection room too and watched the gray shadow of a girl looking stiff and unnatural, with a big white blob of a face. What on earth is that thing, she thought. "If you don't hold your hands quiet, I'll have to tie 'em," Melford had yelled. That's how they looked too, tied and lifeless. When everyone had gone, she cornered the projectionist. "Would you run that again? I'll pay you five dollars." He ran it again. He agreed to meet her every night after the regular rushes and run the film over and over. "Why don't these people like me?" she asked the projectionist. "I like you." "Mr. Zukor pleaded with me to sign a contract and now that I'm here, they treat me like an interloper." "You're different. All the others are either old-timers at 60