Malomar, Doran Rudd and Merlyn had a long session on the writing of the movie. Malomar noted that Merlyn seemed reasonable and cooperative rather than the usual pain in the ass. He gave the agent the usual bullshit about bringing in the picture for a million when everybody knew that eventually they’d have to spend five. It was only when they left that Malomar got his surprise. He mentioned to Merlyn that he could wait for Kellino in the library. Merlyn looked at his watch and said mildly, “It’s ten after three. I never wait more than ten minutes for anybody, not even my kids.” Then he walked out.
Malomar smiled at the agent. “Writers,” he said. But he often said, “Actors.” in the same tone of voice. And “Directors” and “Producers.” He never said it about actresses because you couldn’t put down a human being who had to contend with a menstrual cycle and wanting to be an actress both. That made them fucking crazy just for openers.
Doran Rudd shrugged. “He doesn’t even wait for doctors. We both had to take a physical together, and we had ten A.M. appointments. You know doctor’s offices. You gotta wait a few minutes. He told the receptionist, ‘I’m on time, why isn’t the doctor on time?’ Then he walked out.
“Jesus,” Malomar said.
He was getting pains in his chest. He went into the bathroom and swallowed an angina pill and then went to take a nap on the couch as his doctor had ordered. One of his secretaries would wake him up when Houlinan and Kellino arrived.
– -
“The Stone Woman is Kellino’s debut as director. As an actor he is always marvelous; as a director he is less than competent; as a philosopher he is pretentious and despicable. This is not to say that Stone Woman is a bad film. It isn’t really trashy, merely hollow.
“Kellino dominates the screen, we always believe the character he plays, but here the character he plays is a man we do not care about. How can we care about a man who throws away his life for an empty-headed doll like Selina Denton whose personality appeals to men satisfied with women whose breasts and rear are extravagantly rounded in the cliche style of male chauvinistic fantasy? Selina Denton’s acting, her usual wooden-Indian style, insipid face contorted in grimaces of ecstasy, is just plain embarrassing. When will Hollywood casting directors learn that the audience is interested in seeing real women on the screen? An actress like Billie Stroud with her commanding presence, her intelligent and forceful technique, her striking appearance (she is truly beautiful if one can forget all the deodorant commercial stereotypes the American male has idolized since the invention of television) might have salvaged the film, and it is surprising that Kellino, whose acting is so intelligent and intuitive, did not realize this when he was casting. Presumably he has enough clout as star and director and co-producer to call this shot, at least.
“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.”
– -
“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.”