Minnie Flynn/Chapter 7
HAL DEANE had already attracted considerable attention. The producers of motion pictures, as well as the press, had applauded his sincere, intelligent efforts to vitalize the plots of the screen pictures. He seemed to recognize that striking individual characterization and humor would revive the lagging interest of a public jaded by commonplace plots. Deane was one of the pioneers in this field.
Men like Bacon, who had gotten their schooling in the second-rate theaters, scoffed at his "radicalism."
Bacon had been a barnstormer; a stock actor in small towns; later, a producer of cheap, tawdry road shows. He had fed the audiences highly colored, sensational melodramas played in an artificial and flamboyant manner. Even when plays had real merit, Bacon managed by his interpretation to destroy in them any semblance of reality. He was convinced that theater audiences liked exaggeration of style in dress, mode of speech, of emotional expression. He carried this idea into the picture business, and it met with the approval of most of the producers who were equally ignorant of audience reactions; only a very few among them had had experience in any branch of the theatrical profession. Characterization of individual rôles was a waste of effort to him. He scorned Deane's insistence that the only hope for the screen lay in individual interpretation of type.
Bacon believed in physical comedy, bald, obvious cartooning which would provoke what he and the men of his school called "belly laughs." Deane achieved a more subtle humor. By balancing laughter and tears he made real the marionettes on the screen. He chose stories about real people. When he launched them upon their melodramatic ways, guided them through situations often vague and distorted, he made them seem plausible because of the sincerity and the reality of the playing. He wanted the audiences to see themselves in these simple interpretations of every-day people—and they did.
The public soon began watching for the pictures which Deane was directing. They could laugh at them, they could cry over them. "Human," they called them.
Deane was a skilled mechanic. He would not have himself called anything else. He could not see much art in the "movies." If the public wanted pap, he would give it to them. He would grind out happy endings, which would bring success and money both to him and George Beauregard, for whom he was working.
At college, while he was studying to be a chemist, he had noted the possibilities of motion pictures as a new prosperous industry with Gargantuan power. He saw that with intelligent coördination this new medium possessed potentialities for the actual enlightenment and amusement of the masses.
When he finished college, received his Bachelor's Degree of Science, and knew he had a profession to fall back upon, he turned to the moving picture studios, keenly curious. He was interested in the amazing strides already made in the studio laboratories. Each year new inventions made more beautiful the photography on the screen. Each year more skilled mechanics improved the electrical department, until there had been perfected gigantic powerful lights which brought a semblance of clear crystal daylight onto the very stages of the studios. Architects were contributing their skill in designing stage settings. Costumers were learning photographic values of all fabrics. Skilled artisans from all over the world were turning toward the "movies."
Deane began in one of the laboratories. His quick, incisive mind soon attracted the attention of those in charge. They dismissed his radical ideas on labor-saving devices. They were amused at his worry over the useless, vulgar waste of money in the careless hands of the so-called creative people of the studios. But they were awed by his college education and often turned to him for advice or information. Being well-read, Deane suggested many stories which were screenable. He corrected the doubtful English of the titles written upon the screen. He even took a fling at writing copy for the advertisements of their productions.
At first directing pictures had not seemed an opening wedge to him. Most of the directors were men with some experience in the theater, but many of them failed in this new medium. During that period, when the motion picture industry was aching from its growing pains, artisans sprang to the positions formerly held by artists. Many of this new school of directors were making good. Among them were men without academic training, but with vision, a keen sympathetic understanding of the masses, and the humor of the streets. Above all things, they were fearless, because they were not fettered by the traditions of the theater. Deane saw their success, and realized that here was the channel through which his opportunity was to come. He began as an assistant director and worked in this capacity for several months. Then his chance came, though oddly enough he didn't succeed at once. His pictures were quite mediocre. Deane realized this to his chagrin, and with wry humor confessed to the producer: "I guess I am cross-eyed with introspection. I've been too full of theories, and I've found them difficult to put into practical use." He marshaled all these theories, evaluated between what was practical and what was merely visionary, finally rejecting everything but the idea of humanizing the characters of the stories given him to produce. His success was of slow but definite growth. After five years of tireless application, he was recognized as one of the most capable, intelligent directors of the screen.
Beauregard paid him a larger salary than was being paid to any other director. For this reason alone Beauregard acceded to all his demands.
Deane bought a story of the tenement districts of New York. The locale was lower Ninth Avenue, and he knew that in order to give a semblance of reality to the characters they must be chosen carefully from among the actors and actresses who typified such an environment. The story was the romance of a shallow, ignorant little girl who succeeded because of a pretty face and native wit.
"I've got the girl!" Deane cried out, his arms cutting through the heavy fog of tobacco smoke swirling to the low ceiling of Beauregard's office. "I've got her!"
The men bent forward eagerly. They had deliberated long and seriously over a girl to play the rôle of Margie Tait in "Women for Sale."
"Who?"
"Big star?"
"Nobody you ever heard of before. Can't even remember her name. Extra girl. Send for Letcher!"
Letcher was brought in, his fat pulpy face gray with fear. "The boss has got something up his sleeve," Letcher was thinking as he hurriedly followed the office boy through the winding corridors to Beauregard's private office.
When Letcher came into the room and stood there in a half-cringing, apologetic attitude, Deane asked:
"Who was that kid who worked on Bacon's set? Girl—Minnie-something-or-other? Did some stunts one day—made you all laugh. Think she called it a 'Chink Act.'"
"Oh, gee, that little chippy?" Red suffused Letcher's face. A mist was swimming before his eyes. He turned to Beauregard, a choking sound in his throat. "Don't fire me for a thing like that, Mr. Beauregard," he pleaded, his huge head rocking on his neck; "it was Binns that lied to me about her. On my honor, I ain't laid eyes on the little fool since that day. I"
"What's her name and address?" said Deane's quiet, compelling voice. "I want to send for her."
Beauregard laughed at the blank, crestfallen expression on Letcher's face. "Yes, sir. Yes, sir!"
When Letcher was gone: "He's right—she is stupid. Pitiful little kid though. Tried to bluff her way into the studio. They were making a fool of her on Bacon's set. But I watched her. I saw the old spark that we're always searching for. She'll photograph well, and after all the main thing is—she's the type! Pliable if I have patience. I've thought it all over, and I know it's worth the experiment."
"If you believe she's the one, I won't argue over it," and Beauregard relaxed in the swivel chair, drew a cigar from his pocket and held it to his nostrils. "I'll be glad to have you start on the picture, Deane. Don't stint on this one—I'm ready to spend some money. We need a knock-out right now. We always depend on you to give one to us."
"You'll get it in this one. It's commonplace enough to be a great commercial success," Deane laughed. "Box office written all over it. Poor girl, rich villain, honest lover, sweet self-sacrificing mother, train wreck, rescue—all the tried and true ingredients of hokum."
George Beauregard moved uneasily and lowered the tight, red lids of his large pop-eyes. Deane saw the color mount to his temples, saw the nervous tug that he gave to the end of the cigar, and smiled. He knew Beauregard hated to hear pictures spoken of as being ground out of a sausage machine. Beauregard wanted to call them "Art." And this is why. . . . Beauregard resented his own background, the poverty-stricken childhood where he had first learned the trade of hoarding up refuse, securing by physical effort something for nothing, and selling it for profit. For years he had been pointed out as the Junk Man,—as the Junk Man of Mott Street; then the Junk Man of Third Avenue; the Junk Man of Sixth Street; even the Junk Man of Fifth Avenue, when, after successful years on Wall Street, he retired and bought himself one of the conspicuous palatial residences on the Avenue between Sixty-sixth and Sixty-seventh Streets. Three years he had spent abroad, trying to wipe out the stigma. Junk man. He returned as George Beauregard, man of affairs, searching for artistic fields in which to invest his fortune. He bought an interest in a new publishing house—and two popular sellers established them. He backed a play, an artistic triumph, but a commercial failure. But he cared nothing about its failure, or the loss of money, because the critics, praising the play, lauded the producer, George Beauregard. Evidently the world had forgotten the Junk Man. Longing to satisfy the creative force in him, and realizing that his dull commercial mind could never have a natural outlet of expression, there was only left to Beauregard the subsidizing of creative artists. He became a patron of all of the tributaries of art. The man who sold him the controlling stock in the motion picture organization known as "The Elite Productions," spoke of the movies as the great new Art, and cleverly stressed the promise that all pioneers in the field would meet with international recognition. So Beauregard became a producer in order that he might command these armies of artisans, vainly hoping that he, at the head, would be recognized as the artist.
Beauregard was always uncomfortable in the presence of Deane. He felt that he was being ridiculed though there was no index of Deane's thoughts in his quiet composure, his deliberate gestures, his frank, smiling eyes.
Beauregard boasted of Deane's college education. There was only a handful of college men in the whole profession—several of them were actors. Beauregard, who dared tell no lies about his own lack of education, which was apparent in spite of a superficial veneer, always mentioned this:
"I've got college men working for me. Deane's a clever chap from Harvard. He's had a better education than I have, but you'd be surprised how little he really knows about Art. Art, I guess, is born in a man. Take me, for instance. I love every branch of it! I'd have been an actor or a musician myself if I hadn't been destined to be a Wall Street broker, and a producer of plays and pictures."
How Beauregard hated Deane's remarks about Art in the moving picture industry!
Beauregard was there when Deane interviewed Minnie. He saw at once why Deane wanted her, with her delicate, oval face, the waving lustrous hair, white, even teeth, gray eyes, shadowed by long lashes, and full, laughter-loving mouth.
Deane sat in his chair behind the desk looking at her with keen appraising eyes. He weighed his words, at the same time intensely studying the reaction on Minnie. Beauregard stirred uneasily. He failed several times to light his cigar, letting the match burn to his highly polished nails. Baiting human beings, especially pretty young girls, always seemed a cruel sport to him. Bacon openly ridiculed them, though often his brutality seemed to his victims a sort of coarse appreciation, and many, like Minnie Flynn, never knew how hideous or insinuating was his laughter. Deane's cruelty was more subtle. He made them laugh, hope, and suffer poignantly so that he could analyze their emotions and reactions.
Deane told Minnie briefly but with dramatic emphasis the story of "Women for Sale." She listened dazedly, awed because she was the focus of his attention. Her ears heard little above the beating of her heart.
"It's a great story, isn't it?"
She flushed, "Yeh. It sure is!" she answered nervously. "Thanks awfully for telling it to me, Mr. Deane. He tells stories something swell, don't he?" she asked others.
Beauregard, spitting out another piece of his cigar, swallowed and nodded.
"Well, young lady. What do you think of the part of Margie Tait?"
Minnie wanted to answer quickly and intelligently, but the silence in the room stifled her. So she repeated in the same unsteady voice, rising in crescendo to a titter, "Yeh—I think the part is swell, isn't it?"
"Look here, Miss Flynn. How would you like to play that part? The star in the picture, do you understand?"
"Oh, God—me?"
"Yes, you. I picked you out for it. You're just the type of girl I want. What's more, I believe you can act."
"Oh, Mr. Deane! Honest—Oh, you're kiddin' me!"
"No, he's not," interposed Beauregard. He was growing more uncomfortable. He was beginning to wish that Minnie were a homely girl.
Tears sprang to her eyes. "I sure can do it, Mr. Deane, if you only give me the chance. Please tell me that you're not kiddin' me!"
"What salary do you want?"
"Anything—nothin'!"
She leaned for support against the big oak table, resting her damp hands upon it, bending forward queryingly, her eyes growing black with dilating pupils, searching Deane's face, fascinated, yet terrified by his enigmatic smile.
"Here's what I'm going to do for you, Miss Flynn. Let you play the part and give you seventy-five dollars a week."
Minnie made no outward move. But within came a violent physical disturbance. Her stomach seemed wrenched and twisted—nausea overcame her. The figures of the men merged into one and swayed like heat vibrations. Again she grasped the oak desk, straddling out her legs to get her balance.
"Quick—a glass of water!" cried Beauregard, who thought that she was going to faint.
"No, don't bother!" She forced a wan smile. "I got sick to my stummick for a minute. I'm all right now . . . . How much did you say you was going to give me? That wasn't by the week, was it?"
Deane turned to Weaver. "Bring that contract here. I want her to sign it."
Minnie was afraid. She had signed something once—that paper at Madame Papillon's. "If you don't mind, I'd rather not. I'll take your word for it. Do I work a couple o' weeks?"
"You'll have to sign the contract. Don't worry. There's no catch in it. It's very simple, merely a form. You're going to have at least eight weeks' employment. This picture is a special."
Minnie Flynn gasped, "You mean to say you're gonna pay me seventy-five dollars a week for eight weeks?"
Deane nodded, "Not only that, Miss Flynn,—I'm going to give you one hundred advance. Buy some wardrobe with it. You'll need two hats with feathers on them."
"Two hats with feathers on 'em," echoed Minnie in a dazed monotone.
"You'll need a sweater and a tam. Do you like red?" Deane was smiling, though his voice was cold.
"You bet your sweet life I do," Minnie answered, brought out of her hysteria by his commonplace question. Then she added hastily, her face burning, "If you don't mind, I'd like to get a green tam. It goes lots better with my hair."
"Get anything you like," answered Deane. "Buy a few bangles for your wrists. Girls like bracelets, don't they?"
Minnie had lost all her self-consciousness. "Sure, I like bracelets. I'm a girl, ain't I?"
"You're the girl, that's more to the point," Deane answered, always with that detached smile.
Weaver returned and put the contract and a check in front of Deane, who glanced over them casually, made a slight notation, then read the contract aloud to Minnie. She listened, standing there swaying slightly, her mouth open, her eyes half-closed, her fingers unconsciously keeping time to the emphasis in Deane's voice.
"You can sign here," Deane pointed to the dotted line. When Minnie reached for the pen, he felt her finger tips cold against his. "She can act," he thought to himself. "I'll be able to get something out of her. Ignorant, but emotional."
Minnie signed on the dotted line, "Minnie Flynn."
"I thought your name was Mineola?" This was the first time Weaver had spoken.
"Yeh, it is. Minnie for short. Ain't it funny—I'm that nervous!"
"It's not such a pretty name for the screen," Beauregard said in his soft colorless voice, made so expressionless by his desire to simulate the cultured tone of a gentleman. "Don't you think we had better suggest to the young lady that she change it?"
"If she doesn't mind."
"Gee, of course not. I've got another name. Do you think MacNally is any better than Flynn?"
Weaver looked swiftly to the ceiling and put his tongue in his cheek. Minnie saw the gesture and hated him for it. It reminded her of Pete. Like a bird in swift flight Minnie's thoughts flew home, and for a breathless second she felt sharp pangs akin to ecstasy as she visualized her triumphant return. How she would astonish them, tantalize them, how she would shame them by her generosities. The men's voices were droning in her ears, but she stood there transfixed, numbed by the poignant satisfaction of a contemplated revenge upon Pete, then caressed by the conjured vision of Billy, Jimmie and her father in new suits and flaming neckties, with silver-foil wrapped cigars protruding from vest pockets. . . . And she was drunk with this ecstasy of sudden possession.
"We've been talking over several noms de plume, Miss Flynn," began Beauregard. "We"
"A new name for you!" The sharp, decisive inflections of Deane's voice brought her back to sudden consciousness. "Mr. Beauregard thinks it wiser to give you another name."
"Yes, we are planning to christen you' today."
"Oh, but Mr. Beauregard, I ain't dressed for a christenin'. I"
Smiles.
"Not a formal christening, Miss Flynn." Beauregard slowly lowered his lids over the protruding eyeballs, and more slowly smiled. He was beginning to be attracted by the prettiness of Minnie Flynn. He made pleasant mental note of the smooth, voluptuous yet slender column of her throat, the delicate roundness of her breasts half-revealed above the low cut of her blouse as she bent over the desk. She was ignorant, but he did not resent this ignorance. It offered him material to work with, and like many who had acquired an education late in life, he enjoyed teaching those more ignorant than he. It gave him a sense of power over them, and to Beauregard this had become the most insidious form of self-flattery. In the picture business it was not difficult to be looked upon as an intellectual. Beauregard's veneer easily fooled them: his bombastic phraseology; his too Chesterfieldian manner. Even his notorious love affairs dignified his position, because of the very boldness with which he flaunted them, to the ignorant minds of the studios; unmasked, uncurtained vice was the privilege of aristocrats and intellectuals.
Deane glanced swiftly from Minnie to Beauregard with an expression of disgust. "We were discussing names, Beauregard, you gallantly suggested something like Sweet, Tender or Gay."
"A rose by any other name, Deane"
Deane cut him short. "Read the list, Weaver. I've written down all you suggested, Beauregard. You'll find the crop has been pretty well culled."
Weaver read the list. "Love—Lovely—Sweet—Pretty—Gay—Joy—Darling—Caprice"
"Ah, yes, I'm afraid you're right. They've all been used. I'm sorry about Caprice—it seems to fit the young lady. 'Capriciousness, thy name is woman.'"
Deane shot him a contemptuous glance. But Beauregard didn't see it. He was looking at Minnie under half-closed lids, and smiling—"like an old bullfrog," raced through Minnie's mind, "but a nice old gent at that"—and how Eleanor had lied about him—from all she had told, Minnie had thought that Beauregard was a skunk instead of a fat, kindly man in his forties, who certainly was showing that he had a lot of respect for women. . . ."
"Yes, Beauregard, the name of Caprice has been used. They are all used—even Mona Lisa."
"Lady of the Inscrutable Smile! Remarkable name for a picture star, especially a vampire. I wish I had thought of it first."
Deane had a sense of humor. He was laughing at Beauregard, at the stupidity of the game as he saw it played every day in the studios. But the procedure bored him, and he resented its interference with work.
"Opal would be the name for this charming young lady."
Minnie tittered.
"There's a chorus girl who does extra work here. Her name is Opal Escent," said Weaver. "She hasn't had the name very long, and she may be persuaded to change it,—for a slight consideration."
"Escent—Opal Escent—Miss Escent—" Beauregard was ruminating aloud. "No, I don't like the name of Escent, it isn't quite euphonious enough."
"Have you a middle name, Mineola?" Weaver asked her.
Minnie had always wished that her mother had given her the middle name of June instead of May. "Yeh—it's June."
"June! Not half bad. In fact, I rather like it. What goes well with June, Deane?"
"June Day," with a scarcely veiled smile from Deane.
"June Day!" echoed Beauregard, bringing his short fat hand down upon his knee with a resounding thud. "You've hit it! May Day—June Day. Yes, that's the name for this young lady. Well, young lady, how do you like it?"
"Swell," answered Minnie, flushed with the triumph of the moment. "I think it's swell!"
"We'll christen her right in this office. Weaver! Open that cabinet and get me a bottle of Scotch. Four glasses!" He was already searching the desk drawer for the corkscrew. "Ring for the photographer, Deane. I'm going to give out the story of our new acquisition. Don't be stingy with the Scotch, Weaver. June Day! We've got to drink a toast to you."
Deane's mouth was drawn into a thin, jagged line. He rose abruptly, "Come on, Weaver. We have work to do."
"Not one highball?" asked Beauregard with a pretense at regret, but welcoming the chance to be alone with Minnie.
Deane didn't answer. He turned to Minnie. "Step into my office in a few minutes, please. I'll have a hundred dollars in cash for you. There are two or three things I wish to discuss."
Minnie was instinctively uneasy before Deane. "Yes, sir."
The door swung open, and the photographer entered. "Flashlight, Mr. Beauregard, or do you want to step outside?"
"Flashlight," he set the bottle and the two glasses under the desk, so they could be hidden by the waste paper basket. "This is Miss Day, Walter. Don't go, Deane. I want a still of Miss Day signing the contract. Miss Day had better stand between us two. There! That's it, little girl. Lean over, pen in hand as if you were signing the contract, then look up into the camera and smile. No, I guess it's better if you look at me and smile."
"Then I'll look at both of you and smile," said Deane with obvious sarcasm.
Minnie had had many snapshots taken. She looked right into the camera and smiled boldly. The sharp report and the puff of smoke startled her.
"Well, that's over," said Beauregard, "and now the preliminaries are on. Develop the negative right away, Walter, and turn a couple of prints over to the publicity department. I want the story in tomorrow's papers."
Minnie shook hands with Walter. He left, grinning, followed by Weaver. Deane slammed the door after him.
"You'll like Deane when you know him better," Beauregard said. "He's a great director. I'll see that he makes you."
"Gee, but you're awfully good to me, Mr. Beauregard. I don't know how to thank you."
"Little June Day," said Beauregard, and his voice dropped. "All the joy we get out of life is but a reflection of the joy we bring into the lives of others. Your happiness is to be my happiness. Shall we drink a merry old highball together?"
"No, I don't want to, really. I gotta get home. You heard what Mr. Deane said. He wañts me to do some shoppin'." With childish eagerness, she added, "Think of it, Mr. Beauregard—a hundred dollars! Why, I never dreamed I'd ever hold that much money in my own hands. I can't believe it. Pinch me, and see if I wake up!"
He leaned over and took hold of her arm, pressing it between his two soft palms. "Dear little arm, I couldn't bear to pinch it. Very well, June Day, run away from me and get your hundred dollars." He sighed ponderously. "It's a great joy to be able to give it to you. I'd like to be there with you while you're spending it. It's a veritable passion with me, enjoying another's happiness."
Minnie let him hold her hand. She was hardly conscious of his presence. Racing madly through her mind were fragmentary pictures of the heights she was to climb, of money, power, of position, and Billy MacNally.
"Good-by, June Day. I'll drink my toast to you alone."
"Aw, that's a shame, but you heard what Mr. Deane said—'in a few minutes.' Honest, it's gettin' terrible late, and the stores'll be closin' on me if I don't look out. I'll come in again tomorrow, Mr. Beauregard."
"Promise, little June Day."
"Sure, what do you think I am? Ungrateful, or somethin'?"
"I've only just begun to do for you, my child. Wait—wait until I have worked out more definite plans for your future."
"The stores'll be closin'."
"All right then, June Day, run away from me."
Minnie's hand had already turned the door knob. With a flashing happy smile, she called her farewell.
Beauregard smiled sadly, the pretense of hurt in his eyes. Minnie saw this, and tossed him a kiss. It was a frank, childish gesture. She had no thought of playing the game that she had with the others. To her he was a nice old man, old enough to be her father, and she owed him everything. She wanted to laugh outright when he quivered at the salute. "Posey old man, like an actor," she thought to herself.
"By-by," she called, "see you tomorrow."
When she turned to walk away, Eleanor Grant was standing there, rigid as a dead thing, her white face blue-shadowed, the two bright red spots on her high cheek-bones gone, a hideous glaze over her eyes.
"Minnie Flynn!"
Minnie backed away from her. She couldn't understand why she was suddenly afraid of Eleanor. But without a word, she turned and fled in the direction of Deane's office. She heard the door to Beauregard's office slam, and she saw in a swift glance that Eleanor had gone inside.
Later, when she passed by, she heard Eleanor's hollow cough. Eleanor was still in Beauregard's office. Minnie stopped short. She heard Eleanor speak her name, calling her "that little Flynn kid." She wondered what they were talking about. . . .