It boils down to the fact that we’re alljackals feeding off each other.
The percolator pops and snaps. A splash ofbrown coffee perks inside the glass bulb on top. A wisp of white steamleaks from the chrome spout.
The Webster specimen’s got it backward, Itell him. Thelma Ritter is a copy of me. Herwalk and her diction, her timing and delivery, all of it was coached. Atfirst Joe Mankiewicz turned up everywhere. Imight sit down to dinner next to Fay Bainter,across the table from Jessie Matthews, whoonly went anywhere with her husband, Sonnie Hale,next to him Alison Skipworth, on my otherside Pierre Watkin, and Joe would be way upabove the salt, not talking to anyone, never taking his eyes off me.He’d study me like I was a book or a blueprint, his diseased fingersbleeding through the tips of his white gloves.
In his movie, ThelmaRitter wearing those cardigan sweaters half unbuttoned with thesleeves pushed back to the elbow, that was me. Thelma was playing me,only bigger. Hammy. My same way of parting my hair down the middle.Those eyes that follow every move at the same time. Not many folks knew,but the folks I knew, they knew. My givenname is Hazie. The character’s called Birdie. Mankiewicz, that ratbastard, he wasn’t fooling anyone in our crowd.
It’s like seeing FranklinPangborn play his fairy hairdresser. Al Jolsonin blackface. Or Everett Sloane doing hishook-nosed-Jew routine. Except this two-ton joke lands on only you, youdon’t share the load with nobody else, and folks expect you to laughalong or you’re being a poor sport.
If you need more convincing, tell me the nameof the broad who sat for Leonardo da Vinci’spainting the Mona Lisa. People remember poor Marion Davies, and they picture DorothyComingore, drinking and hunched over those enormous Gregg Toland jigsaw puzzles on an RKO soundstage.
You talk about art imitating life, well, thereverse is true.
On the scripted page, JohnGlenn creeps down the outside of the space capsule hull,embracing Lilly Hellman and pulling her to safety. Inside the window ofthe orbiting capsule, we see them kissing passionately. We hear the buzzof a hundred zippers ripping open and see a flash of pink skin as theytear the clothes from each other. In zero gravity, Lilly’s bare breastsstand up, firm and perfect. Her purple nipples erect, hard as flintarrowheads.
In the kitchen, the Webster specimen placesthe percolator on the morning tray. Two cups and saucers. The sugar bowland creamer.
When I met her, Kathie Kenton was nothing. AHollywood hopeful. A hostess in a steakhouse, handing out menus andclearing dirty plates. My job is not that of a stylist or press agent,but I’ve groomed her to become a symbol for millions of women. Acrosstime, billions. I may not be an actor, but I’ve created a model ofstrength to which women can aspire. A living example of their ownincredible possible potential.
Sitting at the table, I reach over and take asilver teaspoon from one saucer. With the spoon bowl cupped to mymouth, I exhale moist breath to fog the metal. I lower the spoon to thehem of my lacy maid’s apron and polish the silver between folds of thefabric.
In the Hellman screenplay, through the windowof the space capsule we see Lilly’s bare neck and shoulders arch withpleasure, the muscles rippling and shuddering as Glenn’s lips and tonguetrail down between her floating, weightless breasts. The fantasydissolves as their panting breath fogs the window glass.
Buffing the spoon, I say, “Please don’t hurther.…” Placing the spoon back on the tray, I say, “I’ll kill you beforeI’ll let you hurt Miss Kathie.”
With two fingers I pluck the starched whitemaid’s cap from my head, the hairpins pulling stray hairs, plucking andtearing away a few long hairs. Rising to my feet, I reach up with thecap between my hands, saying, “You’re not as clever as you think, youngman,” and I set the maid’s cap on the very tip-top of this Webster’sbeautiful head.
ACT I, SCENE FOURTEEN
Cut to me, running, a trench coat worn overmy maid’s uniform flapping open in front to reveal the black dress andwhite apron within. In a tracking shot, I hurry along a path in thepark, somewhere between the dairy and the carousel, my open mouthgasping. In the reverse angle, we see that I’m rushing toward the roughboulders and outcroppings of the Kinderbergrocks. Matching my eye line, we see that I’m focused on a pavilion builtof brick, in the shape of a stop sign, perched high atop the rocks.
Intercut this with a close-up shot of thetelephone which sits on the foyer table of Miss Kathie’s town house. Thetelephone rings.
Cut to me running along, my hair flutteringout behind my bare head. My knees tossing the apron of my uniform intothe air.
Cut to the telephone, ringing and ringing.
Cut to me veering around joggers. I’m dodgingmothers pushing baby carriages and people walking dogs. I jump dogleashes like so many hurdles. In front of me, the brick pavilion atop Kinderberg looms larger, and we can hear thenightmarish calliope music of the nearby carousel.
Cut to the foyer telephone as it continues toring.
As I arrive at the brick pavilion, we see anassortment of people, almost all of them elderly men seated in pairs atsmall tables, each pair of men hunched over the white and black piecesof a chess game. Some tables sit within the pavilion. Some tablesoutside, under the overhang of its roof. This, the chess pavilion builtby Bernard Baruch.
Cut back to the close-up of the foyertelephone, its ringing cut off as fingers enter the shot and lift thereceiver. We follow the receiver to a face, my face. To make it easier,picture Thelma Ritter’s face answering thetelephone. In this intercut flashback we watch me say, “Kentonresidence.”
Still watching me, my reaction as I answerthe telephone, we hear the voice of my Miss Kathie say, “Please comequick.” Over the telephone, she says, “Hurry, he’s going to kill me!”
In the park, I weave between the tablesshared by chess players. On the table between most pairs sits a clockdisplaying two faces. As each player moves a piece, he slaps a buttonatop the clock, making the second hand on one clock face stop clickingand making the other second hand begin. At one table, an old-man versionof Lex Barker tells another old Peter Ustinov, “Check.” He slaps the two-facedclock.
Seated at the edge of the crowd, my MissKathie sits alone at a table, the top inlaid with the white and blacksquares of a chessboard. Instead of pawns, knights and rooks, the tableholds only a thick ream of white paper. Both her hands clutch the stackof paper, as thick as the script for a Cecil B.DeMille epic. The lenses of dark sunglasses hide her violet eyes.A silk Hermès scarf, tied under her chin,hides her movie-star profile. Reflected in her glasses, we see two of meapproach. Twin Thelma Ritters.
Sitting opposite her at the table, I say,“Who’s trying to kill you?” Another ancient SlimSummerville moves a pawn and says, “Checkmate.”
From the offscreen distance, we hear thefiltered ambient noise of horse carriages clip- clopping along theSixty-fifth Street Traverse. Taxicabs honk on Fifth Avenue.
Miss Kathie shoves the ream of paper, slidingit across the chessboard toward me. She says, “You can’t tell anyone.It’s so humiliating.”
Bark, oink, screech… Screen Star Stalked by Gigolo.