Stuart Kaminsky - Murder on a Yellow Brick Road

“He found me, Shelly, thanks.” I found out the caller had no accent and told Shelly I’d see him when I could.

It didn’t make sense, at least not to me. I dropped it, after deciding to bill the cost of new car windows to M.G.M., and headed for the Brown Derby. It was almost seven when I got there. I found a space a few blocks away and jogged. The Derby was a greyish dome with a canopy in front and a single line of rectangular windows running around it. Perched on top of the dome and held up by a tangle of steel bars was the replica of a brown derby. The place looked something like an erupted boil wearing a little hat.

I told the waiter that Fleming was expecting me and was led to a table in a corner. The room was jammed but the noise level was low.

Fleming got up and shook hands when I introduced myself. He was a tall guy, about sixty, with well-groomed grey hair. His nose looked as if it had taken one in the past. He was wearing a tweed suit, a checkered tie and a brown sweater. He looked very English, but his voice was American.

“Have a seat, Peters,” he said. There was another guy at the table and Fleming introduced him as Dr. Roloff, a psychiatrist.

Roloff was equally tweedy and even more grey than Fleming, though about ten years younger.

“Dr. Roloff has been kind enough to give me some ideas for my next picture,” Fleming explained. “A version of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”

I must have looked surprised because Fleming added, “I know it’s been done with Freddie March. A good film, but I have some ideas and Spencer Tracy is interested. But that’s another game. What can I do for you, Peters? Can we get you something to eat?”

“Nothing to eat, just some information and I’ll get out of your conference. The police talked to you today about an argument you saw between two people dressed in Munchkin suits.”

Fleming nodded and I went on.

“What exactly did you see and hear?”

“Very little,” said Fleming, taking a belt of coffee. “I was coming back from breakfast with Clark Gable, and we saw the two little people arguing. Clark looked. I wanted nothing to do with it. I had a year of working with them. Most of them were fine, but a lot of them were a pain in the ass. They argued, disappeared, showed up late. Once they screwed up a take on purpose by singing ‘Ding Dong the Bitch is Dead.’ I didn’t notice it. The sound man didn’t notice it. We had to reshoot it.”

“It’s not surprising,” Roloff put in. “Short people, midgets especially, are sometimes inclined to be highly aggressive toward normal size people. They’re also inclined to use obscenity more than the average to assert their adultness, to overcompensate. I had one midget as a patient who knew he was overcompensating with big cigars and sexual overtures to full-sized women. He knew he looked ridiculous and obscene to others, but he couldn’t stop. It was a kind of self hate, a punishment for himself. It’s hard to live your life knowing that whenever you go out on the street people will stare at you. Exhibitionism may result, or the person may become a shy and bitter recluse.”

“Just like movie stars,” I added.

“Sure,” said Roloff.

“Sorry I can’t help you, Peters,” Fleming joined in. “I can give you a lot of stories about Munchkins, but I don’t think it will help. It just supports what Dr. Roloff has been saying. I’ll give you an example. One of them got drunk one day and almost drowned in a toilet. Another time one of them pulled down his drawers in a crowd scene. We didn’t even notice that the first time through the rushes. As for the fight this morning, when I saw it was two little people in Munchkin suits, I paid no attention. I stepped in between them a few times when we were shooting the picture, and I had no desire to take the abuse again. When I saw those two this morning, I didn’t know why they were wearing costumes from the movie and I didn’t give a Hungarian crap.”

He paused to look around the room and regain his composure. The thought of the Munchkins had sent his temper flying.

“I like what we did on that picture,” he continued, patting down his hair. “I came in on it late after a couple of other directors, and I was pulled off it early to take over Gone With The Wind. Still, I spent more than a year on Oz and it was the toughest damn thing I’ve ever done. Those two pictures have been damn good for me, but I wouldn’t want to make either one of them again. Even if no one remembers Oz, I will, and with mixed memories.”

“I like it,” I said.

“It’s a strange movie,” said Roloff, pushing his cup away and fiddling with his pipe. “Depending on who views it and what’s going on in his or her life, it can be a lot of things.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“It’s a child’s dream of accepting the adult world. A girl at puberty dreams of seeking the aid of a magical wizard, aided by three male figures, each not quite a man. Her jealous rival is an old witch who wants the slippers the girl wears. The ruby red slippers can be seen as a menstrual sign. In the book they were silver. The girl in the movie learns to accept power of the ruby slippers-her womanhood-with the help of three flawed male admirers and a mysterious, frightening father figure. The slippers are given to her by a mother figure, a beautiful witch. Did you ever think of having her wake up and find she’s had her first period, Victor?”

Fleming laughed.

“I had no such interpretation in mind when I made the movie, and neither did anyone else who worked on it,” Fleming said.

Roloff lit his pipe and puffed a few times. Then he raised his hand.

“That’s just the point I was making about the Jekyll film,” he said. “It doesn’t matter if it is consciously in your mind. A dream doesn’t necessarily have a conscious meaning. You simply tell the story because you find it interesting and others do, too. My job is to find out why you find it interesting and what it means.”

“You said there were other interpretations,” I said.

“Well,” Roloff said, “how about this one? A lot of people may be reacting to the film as a kind of parallel to the current world situation. If we see the Munchkins as the Europeans-foreign, different, in need of help-and the witch as Hitler, we have a situation in which an All-American girl is forced to take up arms against evil, to help the innocent foreigners, to destroy the well guarded militant Hitler-Witch and to be rewarded in her effort by the human-father-God, the Wizard of Oz.”

“But it turns out to be only a dream,” Fleming said shaking his head and motioning to the waiter for more coffee. This time I took some.

“Right,” said Roloff. “It’s just a dream, to a great extent a nightmare with a happy ending. The film says if we have to enter the war, we will, and we will triumph to return from it as if from a dream. Perhaps we will have to face the fear of death in a colorful and far off place before we can return to the dull security of Kansas. In any case, the message might simply be, if we have to handle it, we can. Would you like another possible meaning?”

I smiled and said two were quite enough, and Fleming said if we weren’t careful, colleges would start teaching courses about the “meaning” of movies. What Roloff said was interesting, but I didn’t see any way I could use it. I was wrong, but I wouldn’t find out till it, was almost too late. As far as I was concerned, the meeting with Fleming provided nothing.

“Sorry again I couldn’t be of more help, Peters,” Fleming said. “Clark paid some attention to the incident, and he has a hell of a memory. He might be able to give you more.”

I said good-bye to Roloff and Fleming and left the Derby. It was after nine. I stopped at a stand for two tacos and a chocolate shake.