The seven deadly sins of Hollywood (1957)

THE WRITER AND HOLLYWOOD I had always pictured Mr. Greene as a man who enjoys suffering too much to enjoy anything else. But it seems he can make do without damnation. He has forsaken the private torture chamber in which he writes so many of his novels and is determined to make his film a light comedy, a souffle with absolutely no social, religious or metaphysical significance. (When the distinguished French director, Rene Clement, had wanted to make his story into a bitter tract on the theme that money corrupts, Mr. Greene and he parted company. Mr. Greene did not feel a bit bitter about money. Nor did he really feel it was so corrupting.) Mr. Greene does not like writing at home — he finds hotel rooms more inspiring. So director and author fly to Monte Carlo, where they take a suite at the most expensive hotel (10 guineas a night each) and continue their work. Mr. Greene is on intimate terms with all the head waiters and reveals an utterly guiltless appetite for caviare. In the afternoon director and author lie on the beach eyeing the passing girls and talking about IndoChina, Robert Louis Stevenson and Marilyn Monroe. And that girl in the sea who fascinates Mr. Greene because she looks like a barmaid. In the evenings they visit the Casino, and Mr. Greene, who is no mathematical genius and has no system, loses £10. His experiences at the roulette tables remind him of how he used to play Russian roulette on Wimbledon Common. For any of you who have not played it, this sport consists of loading one chamber of a six-chamber revolver, spinning the chambers, pointing the muzzle at your head and pulling the trigger. Mr. Greene says that after the sixth time he had indulged in this pastime — and nothing happened— he became bored with it and gave it up. So the director and the author do not play Russian roulette at Monte Carlo. 197