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

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

I picked up copies of Inside Scoop, brought Molly’s byline to my lips, kissed her name and read, Live way beyond your means...in spirit! That is the code of the woman whose hours are filled to the brim with happiness, friendships and love. It is your code for the New Year if you want to develop your personality and radiate charm and magnetism. She did not write about Niko’s party or about Anita. When I phoned her office in New York, I heard that she would be at the California office indefinitely. “Forget about her,” Kenny said. “What’s the use of having a girlfriend thousands of miles away?” Molly must have agreed with him because she did not reply to the messages I left in New York or at her office in Hollywood. Why would she? Why would a girl like that want me? Yes, she kissed me at midnight, but she’d had a lot to drink. She must have been inundated with attention from college men and wealthy theater men. I felt like an idiot making such a big deal out of a party flirtation.
 I went out with Kenny to the speaks where working people spent their time: truckdrivers, manicurists, construction workers, salesgirls. We sat in groups and talked about nothing, and sometimes a girl invited me home with her, and there I would meet her roommates who would politely leave us alone in a tiny living room.
It was May when Etta confessed to me that she had borrowed the fabric and fur she used to make the Oberon and Titania costumes for Anita and me. “Have they noticed?”
“Who?”
“Whoever’s in charge. I don’t know anything about the fashion department.”
“Shhh. Not from here. From Hammerstein’s. It was just lying around back stage. I went over there to get your tights…”
“I don’t get it. Are you in danger?”
“No. But I think you owe me.”
“Name your price.”
“I want to go to Jack and Charlies new gin mill. Another girl would have insisted on the Palm Court, but Etta was one of those rare people plugged in to the coming thing. To Etta, the Palm Court might be delicious and elegant, the service impeccable, but it wasn’t hip. Anyone could appreciate the Palm Court, which meant, to Etta, that it wasn’t interesting.
We got jammed up in Rudolph Valentino’s funeral. We knew it was happening—our cameramen were covering it—but we figured the crowds would have dispersed by nightfall. Wrong. I almost lost Etta in the crush of a hundred thousand sobbing women. Look at these dames, Etta said, getting jostled by people who didnt even notice her, as happens with children. Theyve lost their marbles. Mounted police patrolled back and forth trying to keep order. My impulse was to pick up Etta or, at least, run interference for her, but she didnt need me. She swerved in and out, around people, this way, that way, and often had to wait for me to catch up. We finally arrived at the Puncheon on West Forty-ninth Street.

The owners were the same young cousins who owned the Red Head in Greenwich Village where Kenny and I were so uncomfortable. The Red Head had been demolished to make way for the subway. At this new place in Midtown, there weren’t so many college kids. The people sitting in the Puncheon, a small, narrow antique house, looked like they could have been artists, musicians, journalists—people who didn’t have to look stiff and formal when they went to work. It was dim inside, smelled of beer, and a Duke Ellington record was on the phonograph behind the bar. I recognized some of the staff from the Red Head: the waiter who said enyoy and the seedy lookout who stood at the door, alert to the threat of a raid.
Etta and I got the last available table, sat down and peeked around to see who else was there. To your right, Etta whispered.
Where?
In front of your eyes.
Who?
The Warner brothers.
How do you know what the Warner brothers look like?
Trust me. Thats Sam, Harry, Jack and Albert. Our drinks arrived in coffee mugs, and we added our cigarette smoke to the prevailing cloud.
Are you telling me, I said, waving her hand away when she offered to drop a cube of ice in my mug, that you take them seriously?
Are you telling me that you dont?

    I dont think theres any future in talking features, I said. Who wants to hear photoplayers talk? Can you imagine hearing John Gilberts soprano voice saying, ‘Open the safe, and hand over the cash?’
Their intention isnt to make actors talk. Its the music they want. And vaudeville acts.
But thats only because the Warners dont have moolah. They dont own any decent theaters. Who would go to a picture accompanied by a tinny orchestra on a wax disc when they could go see a feature at Loews Theaters, hear a live orchestra and see George Burns and Gracie Allen in person?
We heard a commotion above the general din. A couple who had been waiting for a seat took it upon themselves to sit down at an empty table in the back corner. Jack and Charlie were refusing to let them sit there. The patrons smiled in a superior way to each other and exchanged in-crowd smirks. Etta leaned over to the next table and asked, “What’s it about?” One of the men answered, “That’s Jimmy Walker’s table. No one sits there except the mayor of New York.”
The couple found another table, and everything calmed down. Etta said, Lets say the picture isnt a feature but a short of your friend Nick Meadows singing. People could hear him and watch him at the same time without his being there in person.

It would end in comedy. The sound and the picture all out of sync. You remember that one we saw at the studio. The dog opens his mouth to bark and out came a canary tweeting. And why would Nick give away his singing for free. If people could go hear him on the screen for a quarter, why would they buy his records? He wouldnt do it. Its a fad. It wont last. We watched the Warner brothers accept their bill, discuss it, pay up and walk out. A tough bunch. You wouldnt want to be on the plains alone and have that pride stalk you. You saw Don Juan. Thirteen reels of John Barrymore synchronized with the sounds of swords clinking, water fountain bubbling, doors slamming. We had that years ago. A man behind the screen. He even read the lines.
Im not talking about the feature, Harry. I didn’t care about Don Juan either. Im talking about the short subject, when Will Hays comes out and says… Etta rummaged in her purse, unfolded a piece of paper and read, Far indeed have we advanced from that few seconds of shadow of a serpentine dancer thirty years ago when the motion picture was born—to this public demonstration of the Vitaphone synchronizing the reproduction of sound with the reproduction of actions.
Etta! You wrote it down!

Harry, this, and she rattled her notepaper, is the first speech ever recorded for a commercial talking picture. Its history. On that very same screen, we heard Mischa Elman play Dvorak on the violin, Roy Smeck play the ukulele, Marion Talley sing an aria from Rigoletto, Efrem Zimbalist play Beethovens Kreutzer Sonata. You dont know the future when you see it.
It’s not practical. It requires a huge phonograph to play the wax discs and a special projection machine that synchronizes the film with the disc, one disc for every ten minutes of film. The discs are fragile and last for only about twenty playings. Then they get gurgly, until the sound seems to be coming from underwater. Not to mention the problem when film prints get torn or broken. You cant repair them by splicing. An entirely new section of film has to be printed as a replacement to preserve synchronization with the phonograph disc. And what about deaf people?
Etta lit another cigarette and exhaled the word, Touché.
And what about the export trade? You would have to produce one feature in English and others in Korean, Flemish, Syrian, Lithuanian and Chinese. Etta let her cigarette dangle from her lower lip and turned her palms upward, meaning she didn’t know how to solve that problem. And what would be allowed? Could the actor say damn or hell?

I finished my drink and craned my head around to see where the waiter was. There, coming through the door, was Molly Tepper with exactly the kind of man who intimated me—ancestors on the Mayflower, all the right clubs. He could have stepped right off the polo fields: sandy straight hair falling over one eyebrow, straight features, well-tailored clothes and an air of ease. Oh, my God, I said, heart lurching. Etta. Lets blow.
Now? I dont have an edge yet.
Change seats with me.
Why?
Just do it. Do it.
Okay, okay, dont percolate. Keeping my chin on my chest, we changed chairs so I was facing away from the door where Molly waited for a table. Who is it? Etta asked. Who walked in?
Someone. Nobody. Nothing.
You know that doll in the cloche hat and beaded skirt?
My hands were trembling. Etta swung her lips over to the side, nibbled the inside of her cheek and examined my face. I avoided her eyes. She turned in her chair to peer into the dimness across the room. Hes shtupping her, thats for sure.
Stop.
If hes not shtupping her, Ill drink my Coco Chanel.
Shut. Up.

She waved the waiter over, and through the roar in my ears, I heard Etta say, Bring him another one and me too. Make it a double. Might as well. Hes buying. Waiter gone, she continued to peer across the room.
Must you stare?
Yes, I must. I like her outfit. Theres pleating on the sleeves. Thats why they fall like that.
Etta.
Relax. She took a sip of whiskey, blew a few smoke rings. “She’s not looking over here.”
I am very uncomfortable, Etta.
Ah, heres further refreshment. Set ’em down, amigo. Good. You brought more ice. I gulped the whiskey, felt it burning my gut and kept my face averted.
Molly was even more beautiful than I remembered: elegant, poised, radiating a sort of calm. They dont have that kind of relationship at all, I said.
Maybe. Maybe not. Relax. They got a table. So did Kenny get shots of that family with the thirty-four children?
Im uncomfortable, Etta.
Did she dump you?
Did who dump me?
The doll who walked in. I didnt answer. Youre safest sitting here. Wed have to walk right by her table if we left now. And believe me, she would notice you because youre with me, and everyone stares at me. Its my curse and my gift. We sipped our drinks, inhaled smoke, blew out smoke, sipped our drinks. Harry, Im quitting.

Okay. You get up first, and Ill follow.
No. I mean Im quitting Fox.
What? Why?
Im going out to the Coast. New York isnt the center of the industry anymore. It used to be, but it isnt now. The future is Hollywood.
It is not, Etta. You dont know what youre talking about. Youve never even been to Hollywood. How can you move someplace you know nothing about. She said nothing. Its cactus and adobe. Its the middle of nowhere. No stores, no theaters, no people, no nightclubs. New York is the hub. Its where all the checks are signed.
But the signing of the checks doesnt interest me.
Dont be silly. You wouldnt like wearing chaps.
Its the future. That much I know.
Youre serious.
Yes. I already told my roommate. She says I owe her two weeks rent, but I dont. She uses my soap all the time, my shampoo. One time I came home and three eggs were missing out of my carton. Like they just got up and walked away. And shes saying I owe her.
But Etta. What will you do out there?

Work. What else? You know what Mr. Fox said? This is unbelievable. He told me the cost of living in California is so much lower than in New York, it makes no sense to offer me the same salary. I said, ‘But moving is expensive—the train ride, getting settled, all of that.’ He said he is not prepared at this moment to pay an employee to work exclusively in the costume department of the Fox Film Company. Why? Because there is no costume department.
How can there be a costume department, Etta? Theres no stores there. The costume department is they travel back to New York to buy what they need and schlep it out there.
I said to him, ‘I will create a costume department.’ He said, ‘Mr. Fox does not need a costume department. The photoplayers are responsible for their own wardrobes.’ I said, ‘That’s why most of them look like shit.’ You should have seen his face.
You said that?
He said, ‘Is that your opinion, Etta?’ I said, ‘Yes, thats my opinion.’ He said, ‘Your opinion ain’t worth crap.’ The end. He was done. I never saw anything like it. It was like he closed a door in my face. I just stood there. Then I realized, oh, time to leave.
Ill miss you, Etta. I really will. Im sorry youre leaving.

You know, if he were the least bit generous, if he said great, we need talent like yours out there, Id return those garments I borrowed. But Im not going to. Im considering them severance pay. Especially the chinchilla cloak. He owes me.
Well, I said, holding my coffee mug toward her, heres to you, my friend.
And the mink cape.
I wondered if Molly had noticed me. I took a chance, turned and our eyes locked. My heart leaped into my throat. She waved to me in a secret way, folded her fingertips against her palm once. I looked away first.
Plus that bolt of paisley, Etta added.
My heart was thudding against my ribs. Time to go, Etta.
Okay, okay, Ive got a buzz. I paid the bill, and we headed toward the door. Etta whispered, Are you going to talk to her?

I kept my eyes lowered as long as I could, but I knew she was watching me. I rehearsed a blasé attitude: Why, hello there, how nice... But when we had worked our way through the aisles and past all the other people, I just stood there gawking at Molly, helpless with love. Whatever she said didn’t matter. I’d seen the look on her face, I’d felt the touch of her eyes. She was mine. Through the roaring of anxiety, I heard the words “My fiancé” and some name. I clasped hands with the man who stood to greet me, heard the words Fox News, heard the words “It’s been a long time” and prayed that the floor would part and swallow me. I should have shaved my mustache off. No one at work liked it. Someone poked my hip. I ignored the jab until it happened again and hurt. Oh, I said in a croaky voice, looking down at Ettas annoyed face, allow me to...
Raid! shouted the lookout. Jack! Charlie! Its the feds! Suddenly, chaos:
drinks being dumped on the floor, people leaping up, chairs turning over, everyone rushing toward the door. Cops burst in as Jack and Charlie activated their system of pulleys and levers, which swept bottles from the bar shelves and hurled the smashed remains down a chute into the New York sewers. Women screamed, men shouted, police ransacked the building, searching behind the bar, in closets, in the ladies’ room. I was carried by the tide of people out to the sidewalk where Etta was shouting, Harry! Hurry up! Run! I searched for Molly but didnt find her and ran to Etta who had darted across the street. She thought all this was much funnier than I did.