ROBBINS Harold - The Carpetbaggers

The girl in the play was somber, introspective, frightened. As she tried to recapture her memory, she looked as she felt – gaunt, tortured and burned out by the heat of the desert. The fact that she was female caused the desire in the men, not her physical appearance. And it wasn't until the very climax that the play revealed the root of her fears to be her own capacity for lechery.

On the screen, Rina was exciting and bold, aware of her sexuality and continually flaunting it before the audience, but there was no subtlety in her acting. And yet, in all honesty, he felt the surge of vitality flowing from her. When she was on the screen, no matter who else was in the scene, he could not take his eyes off her.

He left the theater and went back to his hotel, where the car was going to pick him up. As was usual whenever he was disturbed, he called his mother. "Do you know who they want to play in the picture, Mother?"

"Who?" his mother asked, with her usual calm.

"Rina Marlowe."

His mother's voice was shocked. "No!"

"Yes, Mother," he said. "Mr. Norman tells me they couldn't get Bette Davis."

"Well, you turn right around and come home," his mother said firmly. "You tell Mr. Norman that you have a reputation to consider, that he promised you Davis and you won't accept that blond creature as a substitute!"

"But I already told Mr. Norman I'd talk to Miss Marlowe. He said if I wasn't satisfied after meeting her, he'd try to get someone else."

"All right," she said. "But remember, your integrity counts far more than anything else. If you're not completely satisfied, you come right home."

"Yes, Mother," he said. "Much love."

"Much love and take care," his mother replied, completing their farewell ritual.

Rina entered the room where he was waiting, wearing a black leotard that covered her body from her feet to her neck. Her pale-blond hair was pulled back straight and tied in a knot behind her head. She wore no make-up.

"Mr. Dunbar," she said, coming toward him unsmiling, her hand outstretched.

"Miss Marlowe," he answered, taking her hand. He was surprised at the strength in her fingers.

"I've looked forward to meeting you," she said. "I've heard a great deal about you."

He smiled, pleased. "I've heard a great deal about you, too."

She looked up and smiled for the first time. "I'll bet you have," she said without rancor. "That's why you're out here the first day you're in Hollywood. You probably wonder why in hell I should want to play in Sunspots ?"

He was startled at her frank admission. "Why do you, Miss Marlowe? It seems to me you wouldn't want to rock the boat. You've got a pretty good thing going here."

She dropped into a chair. "Screw the boat," she said casually. "I'm supposed to be an actress. I want to find out just how much of an actress I am. And you're the one director who can make me find out."

He stared at her for a moment. "Have you read the script?"

She nodded.

"Do you remember the first lines the girl speaks when she wanders into the camp?"

"Yes."

"Read them for me," he said, giving her the script.

She took the script but didn't open it. " 'My name is Mary. Yes, that's it, I think my name is Mary.' "

"You're saying the lines, Miss Marlowe," he said, frowning at her, "but you're not thinking about them. You're not feeling the effort that goes into the girl's trying to remember her name.

Think it through like this. I can't remember my name but if I could, it's a familiar one. It's a name I've been called all my life, and yet it's hard for me to remember it. Even though it's a name that is mentioned often in church and I have even said it in my prayers. It's coming back now. I think I've got it. 'My name is Mary. Yes, that's it. I think my name is Mary.' "

Rina stared back at him silently. Then she got up and walked over to the fireplace. She put her hands up on the mantelpiece, her back toward him. She tugged at the knot in her hair and it fell around her shoulders as she turned to face him.

Her face was suddenly gaunt and strained as she spoke. " 'My name is Mary,' " she whispered hoarsely. " 'Yes, that's it. I think my name is Mary.' "

He felt the tiny shivers of goose flesh rising on his arms as he looked at her. It was the same thing he always felt whenever something great in the theater got down inside him.

Bernie Norman came down to the set on the last day of shooting. He shook his head as he opened the door and walked onto the big shooting stage. He should have known better than ever to hire that faigele to direct the picture. Worse yet, he should have had his head examined before he ever let them talk him into buying such a story. Everything about it was crazy.

First, the shooting schedule had to be postponed for a month. The director wanted thirty days to rehearse Rina in the part. Norman had to give in when Rina insisted she wouldn't go on before Dunbar said she was ready. That cost a hundred and fifty thousand in stand-by salaries alone.

Then the director had insisted on doing everything like they had done it on stage. To hell with the budget. Another fifty thousand went there. And on top of everything, Dunbar insisted that the sound in each scene be perfect. No looping, no lip-synching. Every word perfect, as it was spoken on the stage. He didn't care how many takes were necessary. Why should he, the bastard? Norman thought. It wasn't his money.

Three months over the schedule the picture went. A million and a half thrown down the drain. He blinked his eyes as he came onto the brilliantly lighted section of the stage.

Thank God, this was the last scene. It was the one in front of the cabin when the girl opens the door in the morning and finds the two men dead, the younger man having killed the older, then himself, when he realized the depths to which the girl had led him. All she had to do was look at the two men and cry a little, then walk off into the desert. Simple. Nothing could go wrong with that. Ten minutes and it would be over.

"Places!"

The two actors stretched out in front of the cabin door. An assistant director and the script girl quickly checked their positions with photographs of the scene previously made and made a few corrections. The hand of one actor was in the wrong place; a smudge had appeared on the cheek of the other.

Norman saw Dunbar nod. "Roll 'em!" There was silence for a moment as the scene plate was shot, then Dunbar called quietly, "Action."

Norman smiled to himself. This was a cinch. There wasn't even any sound to louse this one up. Slowly the door of the cabin began to open. Rina stepped out and looked down at the two men.

Norman swore to himself. You'd think at least the shmuck would have enough sense to rip her dress a little. After all, it was supposed to be out on the desert. But no, the dress went right up to her neck like it was the middle of the winter. The finest pair of tits in the whole business Dunbar had to work with and he kept them hidden.

The big camera began to dolly in for a close-up. Rina raised her head slowly and looked into the camera. A moment passed. Another moment. "Cry, damn you!" Dunbar screamed. "Cry!"

Rina blinked her eyes. Nothing happened.

"Cut!" Dunbar yelled. He walked out on the set, stepping over one of the prostrate men to reach her. He looked at Rina for a moment. "In this scene, you're supposed to cry, remember?" he asked sarcastically.

She nodded silently.

He turned around and went back to his place beside the camera. Rina went back into the cabin, closing the door behind her. Again the assistant director and the script girl checked the positions, then walked off the set.

"Roll 'em!"

"Scene three seventeen, take two!" The plateman called and stepped away from in front of the camera quickly.