YES, MR.DEMILLE (1959)

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AMONG THE LILLIPUTIANS 17 critical information from one of Mr. DeMille's corps of secre- taries, dutiful, tight-lipped sentries outside his door. Doors to the staff's single-room offices, opening into the corridor, were usually ajar to enable the occupants to perceive the flow of life toward Mr. DeMille's office. There were draw- backs to this fish-bowl existence, yet it had an important ad- vantage. Being addicted to leather heels, Mr. DeMille broadcast his approach down the wooden corridor and sent us into pos- tures of deep thought or sudden industry. His strident walk also alerted the staff that the moment was at hand to present a particular piece of work, perhaps long overdue. When bent on some mission, Mr. DeMille did not stop even briefly at any cubicle, so an assistant with a pressing problem would have to follow in his wake across the studio lot, stepping lively to keep up, and fading away like a dive bomber when the matter was settled, whereupon the next assistant in hot pursuit would leap forward to his side-thus enabling us to get quite a bit done in transitu. This column of people on the march was the subject of much fascinated comment around Paramount, and secret jesting. Visi- tors were alerted to watch for it and usually were on hand at luncheon time to observe it in full flower. Mr. DeMille cus- tomarily arrived at his studio offices shortly before noon, having breakfasted late. On most days it was well after 1 o'clock when he began his luncheon trek to the studio restaurant. It was an unwritten rule that all staff members were expected to sit at the DeMille table—his writers, executive assistants, field secre- tary (as distinguished from his "stationary" secretaries) and business agent. As time wore on, the hungry staff grew fretful waiting for the click of DeMille's heels or the sharp rap on their door. When at last it was heard, the staffers were on their feet, one by one, falling in behind DeMille as he pounded down the corridor, sparks flying from his heels. Should one of the doors be closed, it was DeMille's custom to rap it violently, calling out, "Lunch-