Chuck Palahniuk - Tell All

In the drawing room, BurtLancasterlowers himself onto Miss Kathie as ocean waves rollonto a sandy beach. On the television in the den, RichardToddthrows himself onto Miss Kathie as July Fourth fireworksexplode in a night sky.

Throughout this montage, the actual MissKathie is absent. Here and there, the camera might linger on a discardednewspaper page, a half-tone photograph of Miss Kathie exiting alimousine assisted by Webster Carlton Westward III.Her name in boldface type linked to his in the gossip columns of Sheilah Grahamor Elsa Maxwell.Another photograph, the two of them dancing at a nightclub. Otherwise,the town house is empty.

My hand lifts still another trophy, a heroicstatuette, the muscle of each arm and leg as small and naked as a childMiss Kathie never had, and I massage its face, without pressing, to makesuch thin gold, that faint shine, last as long as possible.

“The most cunning compliments,” playwright William Ingeonce wrote, “seem to flatter theperson who bestows them even more than they do the person who receivesthem.”

Once more we dissolve into flashback. Beginwith a swish pan, fast enough to blur everything, then gradually slow toa long crane shot, swooping above round tables, each dinner tablecircled with seated guests. The gleam of every eye turns toward adistant stage; the sparkle of diamond necklaces and beaming,boiled-white tuxedo shirts reflect that far-off spotlight. We movethrough this vast field of white tablecloths and silverware as the shotadvances toward the stage. Every shoulder turns, twisted to watch a manstanding at a podium. As the shot comes into deep focus, we see thespeaker, Senator Phelps Russell Warner,standing behind the microphone.

A screen fills the upstage wall, flashingwith gray images of a motion picture. For a few words, the figure of Katherine Kentonappears on-screen, wearing acorseted silk ball gown as Mrs. Ludwig van Beethoven.As her husband, Spencer Tracy, snores in thebackground, she hunches over a roll of parchment, quill pen squeezedbetween her blue fingers, finishing the score to his MoonlightSonata. Her enormous face glowing, blindingly bright, from thesilver-nitrate film stock. Her eyes flashing. Her teeth blazing white.

In the audience, every face is cast inchiaroscuro, half lost in the darkness, half lost in the glare of thatdistant light. Forgetting themselves outside of this moment, theaudience sits aware only of the man onstage and his voice. Over all, wehear the rolling thunder of the senator’s voice boosted throughmicrophones, amplifiers, loudspeakers; this booming voice says, “Sheserves as our brilliant light, forever guiding forward the rest of usmortals.…”

Across the surface of the screen, we see myMiss Kathie in the role of Mrs. Alexander Graham Bell,elbowing her husband, James Stewart, aside soshe can listen covertly to Mickey Rooneyontheir party line, wasp-waisted in a high-collar dress. Her Gibson-girlhair crowned with a picture hat of drooping egret plumes.

This, the year when every other song on theradio was Doris Daysinging “ HappinessIs Just a Thing Called Joe”backed by the BunnyBerigan Orchestra. In the audience, no single face draws ourfocus. Despite their pearls and bow ties, everyone looks plain as oldcharacter players, dress extras, happy to shoot a scene sitting down.

At the microphone, the senator continues,“Her sense of noble purpose and steadfast course of action sets thepattern for our highest aspirations.…” His voice sounds deep and steadyas a Harry Houdinior a FranzAnton Mesmer.

This prattle, further example of what Walter Winchellmeans by the term“toast- masturbating.” Or “laud mouthing,” according to Hedda Hopper. According to LouellaParsons, “implying gilt.”

Turning his head to one side, the senatorlooks off stage right, saying, “She visits our drab world like an angelfrom some future age, where fear and stupidity have been vanquished.…”

The camera follows his eye line to revealMiss Kathie and myself standing in the wings, her violet eyes fixed onthe senator’s spotlighted figure. Him in his black tuxedo. Her in awhite gown, one elbow bent to crush a pale hand to her heart. Cue thelighting change, bring down the key light, boost the fill light toisolate Miss Kathie in the wings. Block the scene with the senator as agroom, standing before a congregation, taking his vows prior to givingher some tin trophy painted gold in lieu of a wedding ring.

It’s no wonder such bright lights seeminvariably surrounded by the dried husks of so many suicidal insects.

“As a woman, she radiates charm andcompassion,” says the senator, his voice echoing about the hall. “As aperson, she proves an eternal marvel.” With each word, he climbs to herstatus, fusing himself to her name recognition and laying claim to theenormous dowry of her fame in his upcoming bid for reelection.

Upstage, the vast luminous face of my MissKathie hovers on-screen in the role of Mrs. ClaudeMonet, painting his famous water lilies. Her perfect complexioncare of Lilly Daché. Her lips, Pierre Phillipe.

“She is the mother we wish we’d had. The wifewe dream of finding. The woman whom all others measure themselvesagainst,” the senator says, shining and polishing Miss Kathie’s imagebefore the moment of her appearance. Before he presents her to thisaudience of the faithful. This stranger she’s never met, coaxing herfans to a low-key frenzy of anticipation before she joins him in thespotlight.

More “projectile praise” and “force fawning”or “compliment vomit,” in the eyes of ChollyKnickerbocker.

Everything sounds so much better when itcomes out of a man’s mouth.

Clasped in my hands, a screenplay rolledtight, here is the only prospect for work my Miss Kathie has beenoffered in months. A horror flick about an aged voodoo priestesscreating an army of zombies to take over the world. At the finale, thefemale lead is dismembered, screaming, and eaten by wild monkeys. Lynn Fontanneand Irene Dunnehave already passed on this project.

That trophy held by the senator, it willnever shine as bright as it shines at this moment before it’s received,while this object is still beyond Miss Kathie’s grasp. From thisdistance apart, the senator and she both look so perfect, as if eachoffers the other some complete bliss. Senator PhelpsRussell Warner, he’s the stranger who would become her sixth“was-band.” Himself a prize that seems worth the effort to dust andpolish over the remainder of her lifetime.

Every coronation contains elements of farce.You must be a toothless, aged lion, indeed, before this many people willrisk petting you. All of these tin-plate copies of KennethTynan, trying to insist their opinions count for anything.Ridiculous clockwork copies of George Bernard Shawand Alexander Woollcott. These failed actorsand writers, a mob that’s never created worthwhile art, they’re nowoffering to carry the train of Miss Kathie’s gown, hoping to hitch aride with her to immortality.

Using a strong eye light, go to a mediumclose-up shot of Miss Kathie’s face, her reaction, as the senator’soff-camera voice says, “This woman offered the best of an era. Sheblazed paths where none had braved to venture. To her alone belong suchmemorable roles as Mrs. Count Draculaand Mrs. President Andrew Jackson.…”