In Theda Bara's Tent (as Reviewed by Publisher's Weekly)

CHAPTER TEN

Money flowed into our Piedmont Street offices not only from Birth of a Nation but from the distribution of pictures produced by First National Films. First National had signed Mary Pickford and Charlie Chaplin for the unheard of amount of one million dollars each. Louie and Mr. Gordon invested in theaters too and soon owned at least a piece of fifty of them in New England.
          But Louie was restless and wanted to get started producing pictures. When I was sixteen, he took me with him to the Actors Fund Fair in New York City. He had no films to sell yet, but he rented a booth, and we draped it with a banner: “The Louis B. Mayer Film Company.” All the major film studios were represented at the fair, Vitagraph, Biograph, Kalem, Essanay, Keystone, Mutual Film, Victor Film, Eclectic Film, Solax, Thanhouser and Fox Films.  Motion pictures were fast becoming big business in America, and even at sixteen, I knew I’d find a way to be part of it. It was a young person’s game, except for some of the major theater owners who were in their forties. I did not think of myself as being too young to be taken seriously. This attitude made me bolder than was appropriate, no doubt. My voice was now deep enough to fool adults on the phone, and I conducted some pretty serious business with men who would have been surprised to see that I only had a little fuzz on my upper lip.
           The war in Europe, which stopped the flow of feature films from there to America, had forced our industry to mature until most of the studios were producing multi-reel pictures. Full-length stories showcased the talents of actors who were now named in the credits.

Movie stars arrived at the Actors’ Fund Fair to promote themselves and their studios.  Francis X. Bushman, the barrel-chested matinee idol, walked by our booth with four pony-size Great Danes. Americas sweetheart, Mary Pickford, paraded by surrounded by an entourage. Our booth happened to be next to the Vitagraph booth, and there before my eyes, real as anything, was Anita Stewart. Her hair, a mass of brown waves, was held in place by two strands of pearls twisted together around her forehead. She had the gangly delicacy of a fawn or foal, and her abashed expression further enhanced the air of vulnerability that made her so popular. She signed autographs, smiled for hours and was gracious to everyone.
While Louie worked the room by shaking as many hands as possible, I manned the booth handing out brochures that explained our philosophy: the star is the most important member of the team. I discussed our plans to make family entertainment. I spoke the name of Louis B. Mayer as much as possible, describing him as a comet in the heavens and repeating what he often said about himself—that he was going to be the most important man in the movie industry. There were lulls in the crush of people, and during one of them, Anita Stewart and I exchanged hellos. It surprised me that she was as star struck as I was. “He breeds them on his estate,” she said about Bushman’s Great Danes. “He has twenty-eight of them.”
“Did you read that in Photoplay?”
“Or Motion Picture World,” she said. “One of them.”
“It was Photoplay,” I said, to show her I was up on things. “It showed him with that puppy.”
“That puppy! Was that cute? Those paws?” And right before my eyes, she turned into that puppy, held her hands the way that puppy held its paws in the photo of it sleeping on its back and made her mouth into a sleeping puppy’s mouth. It all happened in a split second, but it was so accurate, all I could do was stand there in awe.
When the cowboy star Tom Mix walked by with spurs jingling, she put her hand over her heart and whispered to me, “Be still my heart!” Another time she whispered, “My feet are killing me!” Our age connected us. She was a teenager too.

             On the third day of the fair, I saw Anita sway, then grab one of the poles holding up the Vitagraph banner to support herself. No one else seemed to notice; they thrust their programs in her face and looked adoringly at her. She must have felt my eyes on her because she turned and showed me the panic in her eyes. I hurried to her and said to the line of fans waiting to approach her, Thank you, thank you so much for coming. Yes, yes, I know youve been waiting, and other such words, while Anita managed to get herself to the only chair available, the one behind our booth. She was hidden from the crowd back there. When I had persuaded the last person out front to return in an hour, I found her sitting on the chair bent in two, her face on her knees.
Anita, should I get your mother?
Harry, she said lifting her head—she was the color of putty. “The people are blurry.
What people, Anita?
All the people.
Blurry how?
Like you right now. Distorted. In a fun-house mirror. She grabbed my arm. Im scared.

I abandoned my post, ran from booth to booth looking for Mrs. Stewart, a round woman in a floor-length chinchilla coat. She was at the Fox Film’s booth talking to a medium-size man in a three-piece suit with dark thick mustache who had tried to hide his bald dome by combing his side hair over it. While Mrs. Stewart spoke, he tidied one- sheets on his counter, but in a way that was so awkward, I looked harder. He used only one hand. The other hand remained stuffed in his jacket pocket. Mrs. Stewart! I called rushing to her. Then I froze in my tracks when I saw a sign Theda Bara in Person This Afternoon!
Mrs. Stewart was saying, Motion-picture fairs aint in her contract. She dont get compensation for this. On her feet from morning to night, and she dont get nothing for it. We drive down Broadway; we see Clara Kimball Youngs name in electric lights. They dont put Anitas name nowhere. Shes worked years with no vacation. When she asked for one, they said she could retire for all they…
Come with me, I interrupted her.
Pardon me? She stared, then remembered me from the booth, and we hurried through the crowd. Anita was bent over on the chair, her face on her knees. Annie! Mrs. Stewart rushed to her daughter. Ours was about the least popular booth at the fair, so I was free to attend to Anita. Ma, she said in a tiny voice. What is this place?
This place? You know this place.
How do you do, Anita said. Very heavy, thank you.
Annie!
Leading man, four hundred dollars a week; cameraman, seventy-five dollars a week. Four weeks to complete an average production. Yes, I do have a pet. I bleed every month.
Annie! She took her daughters greenish-gray face in her hands. Harry, darling, get my car. Hurry. Im taking her home to Long Island.

I ran to the building entrance wondering how on earth I was going to know which car of the hundreds parked outside belonged to Anita. They were lined up out there by the curb, each one the latest model. My attention was arrested by a white limousine with tinted black windows that purred to a stop at the curb. The chauffeur, in Moroccan blue uniform, knee-high black boots and a blue cap with a snake insignia above the visor, opened the back door and stood at attention so rigidly it was dramatic. Two people hidden under black tent-like Arabian garments—with only slits in the veil to see through—got out of the back seat and stood next to the chauffeur. An Arab in a red fez, white bloomers, red vest and golden slippers with pointed toes emerged from the car and stood at attention next to the chauffeur. All the chauffeurs from the other cars parked near the curb were now standing next to their vehicles watching. Everyone on the sidewalk was watching too.
 All of us knew who would emerge next. But she didn’t. She didn’t. She didn’t. And then… she did! Theda Bara, moving as if in an opium dream, slowly got out of the car. She wore a gold-and-black-striped headpiece like a pharaohs, with a golden snake above her forehead. Her arms were bare with bracelets not on her wrists but on her slender, snow-white upper arms. Her eyes were very large, outlined in black brought to points at the sides. She jingled when she moved because of the ankle bracelets under her long, almost transparent, billowy culottes. The veiled Arabian attendants stood on each side of her and waited while the chauffeur reached into the car. Out pranced a magnificent white Borzoi in a diamond collar with a ruby leash. Theda Bara accepted the leash, and the entourage entered the film fair.
If I died now, said one of the chauffeurs, “I wouldnt care. I seen it all.
Another kept repeating, Holy moly. Holy moly. Did you see that?
Shes from the sands of Arabia, a young girl on the sidewalk said. Her mother was a mistress. Thats why she cant help being bad.
I was spellbound too, but remembering my mission, I found Anitas chauffeur and had him waiting with the Packard when Mrs. Stewart came out with her arm around her daughters slender shoulders.  Anita kept her face down as they hurried to the car.

I returned to the booth and stayed there for the rest of the afternoon. This was my job. I knew it was unreasonable to be mad at Louie, but I didnt think it was fair that he got to wander around. I wanted to see Theda Bara close up in the tent that William Fox had erected for her at the back of the auditorium. It was Friday, the last day of the fair. I had never met an Arab except in books—Scheherazade, Aladdin, Ali Baba. Some of the people who stopped at our booth told me that the tent was dimly lit, draped in velvet and perfumed with incense. They said Theda Bara reclined on a circular bed surrounded by human skulls and crystal balls, that she spoke in hushed tones about her exotic childhood along the Nile and her triumphs on the stage in Paris.
Louie returned to the booth as the fair was closing. No one had shown up at our booth for more than an hour. He said, Whats eating you?
My turn, I said and regretted the sound of childish petulance. I hurried through the auditorium to stand in line to see Theda Bara. But it was too late. The black candles that lined the walkway into the tent no longer flickered. A black skull-and-crossbones banner blocked the tent entrance. All around me, booths were being disassembled and one-sheets packed in boxes. Actors and producers no longer smiled but now were free to show their fatigue.

Not fair. Not my fault that I had to work the booth all day. There should have been an after-hours meeting for those of us who couldnt get there on time. I could understand closing the tent to the public, but those of us in the industry should have been able... What was the worst that could happen if I just barged in? Theyd say get out of here. It would be embarrassing but not tragic. So I ignored the skull banner blocking the entrance, lifted the tent flap and went inside.
A table with a white cloth was in the middle of the floor. Four men in yarmulkes sat around it. On the table were a wine goblet, a loaf of challah bread and a candlestick. Waving her hands in a circular motion above the candle flame, as my mother had done every Friday night, was Theda Bara saying the Sabbath prayer: Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu melekh haolam...
All eyes turned to me. Gut Shabbes, I said. Shavua tov. The words came from my bones. It was my father wishing us a good week as he had done every Friday night. I had not heard those words for more than ten years. The Borzoi, resting on the floor, put his chin back down on his outstretched paws.
Theda Bara said, Shabbat shalom. Please. Come in. She wore no pharaohs headpiece now, just a piece of lace on top of her head and instead of exotic clothes, a muslin smock. Look at his eyes, Papa. So full of soul. Come in. Dont be shy.
Like Uncle Moishe, Papa said. He was a slight, round-shouldered, harmless old man, the sort of man a mouse would have conversations with in a fairy tale. On the floor next to him was the black burqa he had worn when he got out of the white car that afternoon.

You got a lotta nerve, said the man Mrs. Stewart had talked to that afternoon. The hand that had been in his pocket when he rearranged one-sheets was on the table, and I could see that it was paralyzed.
Please, said Theda Bara, gesturing toward the table. “Papas about to say the prayer over the wine. Do you know it?
Yes. I do.
Papa said the prayer and passed the wine goblet around. Theda Bara handed it to me, and when I hesitated, she said, Go on. Dont stand on ceremony. Papa said the prayer over the bread and broke off a piece to hand around too.
I am astonished at the balls of this boy, the man from that afternoon said. He was portly with a perfectly egg-shaped head. His thick eyebrows met above his nose. His eyes were suspicious and shaded by heavy lids. The corners of his mouth turned down. Just like that, he walks in. I never saw nothing like that in my life. What is the reason for your entering this forbidden tent?
Im Theodosia Goodman, said Theda Bara. This is my papa, Mr. Goodman, my Uncle Yonah, my cousin Shimmen and my employer, Mr. Fox. Shimmen was still in his Turkish bloomers and wore his fez instead of a yarmulke.
You should pardon me for telling you this, said Papa to me. But your trousers need to be let down.
Papa!

I could do this for you.
Papa! Stop!
You go behind the screen, take them off, Ill fix them. Takes two seconds.”
I had a growth spurt, I said, now thinking that maybe Louie was right to complain about my lack of interest in clothes.
Forgive Papa.
Whats to forgive? said Papa. I wont even charge him a penny.
You dont have time to mend trousers, said Uncle Yonah looking down at a gold watch on a chain. Look at the hour. Well be late to the theater.
Irving Berlin, Cousin Shimmen told me. Have you seen it? Stop, Look, and Listen.”
Uncle Yonah said, “I didnt come here from Cincinnati to sit in a tent. Who knows when well go to the theater again?
Answer me, William Fox said to me.     
       Shimmen, Theda Bara said, you had a growth spurt about that age too.  She ducked behind a Japanese screen painted with white chrysanthemums. The Borzoi lifted his head, followed Theda Bara with his eyes, then got up, trotted to the screen and sat in front of it. Papa, please get the maid for me. Shes out there somewhere. Papa exited through a flap at the side of the tent.

State your business at this fair, said Mr. Fox, drawing a long cigar from his pocket, lighting it, setting the match carefully in an ashtray on the table and taking a puff. He was wearing white cotton socks more appropriate to a tennis outfit than to the three-piece suit he wore. Uncle Yonah and Cousin Shimmen got up from the table and began to put things away in satchels made of Oriental carpet.
I work for Louis B. Mayer, I said.
Who?
Louis B. Mayer.
Never heard of him.
Hes the foremost exhibitor and distributor of high-class entertainment in New England.
No, he aint. I would of heard of him. William Fox knows everyone who is of importance.
I would be happy to introduce you to him, I said. 
His booth is next to Vitagraph, Theda Bara called from behind the screen. I was hoping to get over there to meet Anita Stewart. Im a big fan. Did you get to meet her, Harry?
Yes, I called to her. Shes just like on the screen.

Thats more than I can say about me, said Theda Bara. Papa entered the tent through the back flap with a small, thin black woman dressed in black clothes. She went behind the screen, and the star said, Golly. You were supposed to be here half an hour ago. You know I cant work this get up without your help.
I invented her, Mr. Fox said to me, puffing his cigar and leaning back on his chair. I took a tailors daughter from Cincinnati and made her a worldwide star. I am the first film man to do that. Name one other who has done that. You cannot. They tell the truth. They tell you Anita Stewart went to Erasmus High School in Brooklyn. Is Erasmus High School interesting? They tell you Florence Turner eats a soft-boiled egg for breakfast. This is not interesting. This is not theater. It is only William Fox who has applied the lessons of vaudeville ballyhoo to the making of films. He tapped his cigar ash carefully into the ashtray. The public dont want the truth. They want a vamp.
You should see the angry letters married women send me, Theda Bara said from behind the screen. They think I go around stealing husbands.
The public dont want the truth unless the truth is dramatic. Take Tom Mix. You like the cowboy Tom Mix?
Yes, I do.

I know you do. Everyone does. He is a real Westerner. He was the U.S. Marshal in Oklahoma. Tom Mix performs all his own stunts. His horse Tony can perform twenty tricks, including stamping on villains and jumping a thirty-foot chasm. Does William Fox ignore the merits of this animal? No. He includes his name in the credits. Name one other film man puts the horses name in the credits. I do this for two reasons. One, it makes Tom happy, and two, it sells pictures. He took another a puff on his cigar. At the age of sixteen, I appeared on the stage with Cliff Gordon under the name Schmaltz Brothers. Listen to one of our jokes: I say, ‘Someone wanted to buy my blind horse.’ Cliff says, ‘No one would buy that.’ I say, ‘Why do you say that? Irving offered me two hundred dollars for him yesterday.’ Cliff says, ‘Why, he hasnt got two cents.’ I say, ‘I know but wasnt it a good offer?’ Mr. Fox eyed me, waiting to see if I would laugh. When I didn’t, he continued. I was the first to open a moving-picture theater in Brooklyn. It was the old Unique, which, by an outlay of sixteen thousand dollars, was transformed into a beautiful playhouse. In that place, I combined vaudeville with motion pictures. We changed acts three times a week. I mastered the difficulties of booking artists. I created four booking offices, and today thousands of theaters all over the country are operated on the William Fox lines, vaudeville and motion pictures. By the age of thirty-one, I had twelve theaters on Manhattan Island. Can the individual you work for say the same?
Out from behind the screen came Theda Bara, pharaoh helmet in place, eyes outlined in fierce black, bracelets on her bare upper arms. She was aloof, regal and stood there looking into the distance. Her father and uncle pulled their burqas over their clothes; her cousin adjusted his fez and straightened his red vest; the maid stood back to appraise her work, came forward and gave a quick tug to straighten the vamps culottes, picked up the dogs leash and handed it to the star, nodding approval at her work and disappearing out the back. Uncle Yonah opened the main tent flap, and Theda Bara, flanked by her Arab attendants, the white Borzoi trotting ahead of her, went out to play the role of the vamp driving away in her limousine.

Mr. Fox took down the skull-and-crossbones banner. I thought it would be more polite to look away when he folded it because he did it so awkwardly with his one good hand. I don’t know why I followed him across the floor to his booth, but I did. While a crew of workers disassembled the Fox Film’s booth, he said to me, I was a poor boy on Stanton Street. My home was in a tenement. And now Fox Film Corporation is a public company, the first film company listed on the Curb Exchange. Answer my question.” He stopped walking and looked me full in the face, standing too close, a bullying tactic. I defied him by not stepping back as he expected me to, as most people probably would. It felt like an aggressive act for him to get so close to me, to break right into my aura and invade my illusion of safety. We stood almost nose to nose in the middle of the chaos of the closing fair—workers hurrying by, people barking orders, men pushing loaded dollies. He smelled of cigar smoke but also cologne. State the reason you entered the tent.
I wanted to see Theda Bara.”
“So you could get her away from me?”
“What?”
“She’s under contract. Tell that to the person you work for.”
“What?”
“Do you know what a contract is? Do you know what happens to people who break them?” Now I stepped back. “Listen,” he said taking a step forward so my space was reinvaded. “You keep your trap shut. No one wants to know the truth.”
“Well, I certainly didn’t,” I said stepping back again and to the side. “I liked it better thinking there was such a person as Theda Bara.”
This time he stood where he was. “You got balls, kid,” he said. “I like a kid with balls. You want a job with me? You got one.”