Mario Puzo - Fools die

“The script by Flascom Watts is one of those pseudoliterary exercises that read well on paper but don’t make any sense at all on film. We are expected to feel a sense of tragedy for a man to whom nothing tragic happens, a man who finally commits suicide because his comeback as an actor fails (everyone fails) and because an empty-headed, selfish woman uses her beauty (all in the eyes of the beholder) to betray him in the most banal fashion since the heroines of Dumas the Younger.

“The counterpoint of Kellino trying to save the world by being on the right side of every social question is goodhearted but essentially fascist in concept. The embattled liberal hero evolves into the fascist dictator, as Mussolini did.

The treatment of women in this film is also basically fascist; they do nothing except manipulate men with their bodies. When they do take part in political movements, they are shown as destroyers of men striving to better the world. Can’t Hollywood believe for a moment that there is a relationship between men and women in which sex does not play a part? Can’t it show just one goddamn time that women have the ‘manly’ virtues of a belief in humanity and its terrible struggle to go forward? Don’t they have the imagination to foresee that women might, just might, love a movie that portrays them as real human beings, rather than those familiar rebellious puppets that break the strings men attach to them?

“Kellino is not a gifted director; he is less than competent. He places the camera where it should be; the only trouble is that he never gets the lead out of it. But his acting saves the film from the complete disaster the whoremongering script dooms it to be. Kellino’s directing doesn’t help, but it doesn’t destroy the film. The rest of the cast is simply dreadful. It’s not fair to dislike an actor because of his looks, but George Fowles is physically too slimy even for the slimy role he plays here. Selina Denton is too empty-looking even for the empty woman she plays here. It’s not a bad idea sometimes to cast against the role, and maybe that’s what Kellino should have done in this film. But maybe it wasn’t worth the trouble. The fascist philosophy of the script, its male chauvinistic conception of what constitutes a ‘lovable’ woman, doomed the whole project before they loaded film into the camera.”

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“That fucking cunt,” Houlinan said not in anger but with bewildered helplessness. “What the fuck does she want from a movie anyway? And Jesus Christ, why does she keep going on about Billie Stroud being a good-looking broad? In all my forty years in movies I’ve never seen an uglier movie star. It’s beyond me.”

Kellino said thoughtfully, “All those other fucking critics follow her. We can forget about this movie.”

Malomar listened to both of them. A matched pair of pain in the asses. What the hell did it matter what Clara Ford said? The picture with Kellino as star would make its money back and help pay some studio overhead. That’s all he’d ever expected from it. And now he had Kellino on the hook for the important picture, from the novel by John Merlyn. And Clara Ford, brilliant as she was, didn’t know that Kellino had a backup director doing all the work without credit.

The critic was a particular hate of Malomar’s. She spoke with such authority, she wrote so well, she was so influential but she had no idea at all about what went into the making of a movie. She complained about casting. Didn’t she know that it depended on whom Kellino was fucking in the major female role and then it depended on who was fucking the casting director for the smaller parts? Didn’t she know these were the jealously guarded prerogatives of many people in power in certain movies? There were a thousand broads for each bit part and you could fuck half of them without even giving them anything, just letting them read for it and saying you might call them back for another read. And all those fucking directors building up their own private harems, more powerful than the greatest money-makers in the world as far as beautiful, intelligent women were concerned. Not that you even bothered to do that. Even that was too much trouble and not worth it. What amused Malomar was that the critic was the only one who got the unflappable Houlinan upset.

Kellino was angry about something else. “What the hell does she mean it’s fascist? I’ve been antifascist all my life.”

Malomar said tiredly, “She’s just a pain in the ass. She uses the word ‘fascist’ the way we use the word ‘cunt.’ She doesn’t mean anything by it.”

Kellino was mad as hell. “I don’t give a shit about my acting. But nobody compares me with fascists and gets away with it.”

Houlinan paced up and down the room, almost dipped into Malomar’s box of Monte Cristo cigars, then thought better of it. “That broad is killing us,” he said. “She’s always killing us. And your barring her from previews doesn’t help, Malomar.”

Malomar shrugged. “It’s not supposed to help, I do it for my bile.”

They both looked at him curiously. They knew what bile meant but knew it wasn’t in character for him to say it. Mailwoman had read it in a script that morning.

Houlinan said, “No shit, it’s too late for this picture, but what the hell are we going to do about Clara on the next one?”

Malomar said, “You’re Kellino’s personal press agent, do what you want. Clara’s your baby.”

He was hoping to end this conference early. If it had been just Houlinan, it would have ended in two minutes. But Kellino was one of the truly great stars, and his ass had to be kissed with infinite patience and extreme shows of love.

Malomar had the rest of the day and evening scheduled for the cutting room. His greatest pleasure. He was one of the greatest film editors in the business and he knew it. And besides, he loved cutting a film so that all the starlet heads dropped on the floor. It was easy to recognize them. The unnecessary close-ups of a pretty girl watching the main action. The director had banged her, and that was his payoff. Malomar in his cutting room chopped her right out unless he liked the director or the one-in-a-million times the shot worked. Jesus, how many broads had put out to see themselves up there on the screen for one split second, thinking that one split second would send them on the way to fame and fortune. That their beauty and talent would flash out like lightning. Malomar was tired of beautiful women. They were a pain in the ass, especially if they were bright. Which didn’t mean he didn’t get hooked once in a while. He’d had his share of disastrous marriages, three, all with actresses. Now he was looking for any broad who wasn’t hustling him for something. He felt about pretty girls as a lawyer feels hearing his phone ring. It can mean only trouble.

“Get one of your secretaries in here,” Kellino said. Malomar rang the buzzer on his desk, and a girl appeared in the door as if by magic. As she better had. Malomar had four secretaries: two guarding the outer door of his offices and another two guarding the inner sanctum door, one on each side like dragons. No matter what disasters happened-when Malomar rang his buzzer, somebody appeared. Three years ago the impossible had happened. He had pressed the buzzer and nothing happened. One secretary was having a nervous breakdown in a nearby executive office, and a free-lance producer was curing her with some head. Another had dashed upstairs to accounting to get some figures on the grosses of a film. The third was out sick that day. The fourth and last had been overcome with a painful desire to take a leak, and gambled. She established a woman’s record for taking a leak, but it was not enough. In that fatal few seconds Malomar rang his buzzer and four secretaries were not insurance enough. Nobody appeared. All four were fired.