He has not been getting along with Hal Roach as well as before. They have not been on good terms since he and Babe returned from their trip to Europe to find that the board of directors—personified always, for him, by Henry Ginsberg, who does Hal Roach’s dirty work—had suspended their contracts and salaries for the duration. He later learns that Hal Roach wrote to MGM during the dispute to warn of the possible break-up of the partnership, only to have Felix E. Feist over at MGM inform Hal Roach that this was unacceptable, and everything necessary should be done to keep the team together.
Everything necessary, that is, apart from giving them back their money.
Hal Roach doesn’t offer him a drink. He doesn’t care. He’s been drinking enough away from the studio, and in truth his head is foggy this morning. His head is foggy most mornings since the divorce. His head might be foggier still except that Henry Ginsberg has fired Richard Currier, who once supplied him with fine liquor for his dressing room. At least Prohibition has now ended, so supply is no longer the issue.
Consumption is the issue.
It will soon be Christmas, his first away from his daughter. He is not sure how he will cope. And yesterday was Teddy’s funeral. Teddy was buried at Forest Lawn.
Laughing gas. Of all the ways for a comic’s brother to die.
Hal Roach expresses his condolences on the loss of Teddy.
Thank you, he replies.
Hal Roach has suspended filming on Oliver the Eighth out of respect for his bereavement. They will pick up again in January. Despite any frostiness between them, Hal Roach is still a fundamentally decent human being.
Hal Roach also likes Lois, his ex-wife: not sexually—although who knows?—but in an avuncular way. Hal Roach thinks he is a fool to have left Lois. Hal Roach may well be right, because he is also starting to think this, but Hal Roach won’t hear it from his mouth.
We need to firm up the slate for next year, says Hal Roach.
—I’ve supplied Mr. Ginsberg with some ideas.
—Mr. Ginsberg informed me. Unfortunately, what you’re proposing to make are all two-reel pictures.
—That’s what we make. You built the studio on two-reel pictures. We became stars because of two-reel pictures.
—You made Pardon Us, and that was a feature. You made The Devil’s Brother, and that was a feature too. You’ve just finished Sons of the Desert, a feature, and that’s just great, maybe one of the best pictures you and Babe have put together. The previews are through the roof. Shorts don’t make money anymore. Even if the studios want them, they can produce their own. They don’t need to buy them from us. Short pictures are dying.
He has in his possession the original scroll presented by the Academy to Hal Roach Studios for The Music Box. The picture wasn’t awarded a statuette, just the scroll, but Hal Roach decided that he should keep it, which was a kind gesture. Perhaps, too, Hal Roach needed the space it might otherwise have occupied for more dead animals.
A short picture won you an Academy Award, he tells Hal Roach.
—You’re not listening to me. That may be true, and The Music Box is a fine picture, but I’m trying to tell you that shorts won’t win me any more Academy Awards, and shorts won’t pay salaries. You must start thinking in terms of features. I can’t fund a slate of shorts and make them pay. Look, I’m not shelving short pictures entirely, but we all have to understand that their time is coming to an end. I’m going to need at least one feature a year from you. The first is this.
Hal Roach hands him a script—an outline, really. It’s clear that it’s something Hal Roach has been working on personally because his fingerprints are all over it, literally and metaphorically. It’s called Babes in Toyland.
Isn’t that an opera? he asks Hal Roach.
—Operetta. A little opera—you know, funny. I bought the rights from RKO, and MGM will finance it for a million, maybe a million and a half, as long as we get a singer for the male lead. Although, obviously, the picture is yours and Babe’s. Take the script away with you. Read it over the holidays. We’ll talk when you return.
He stands, rolling up the script as he rises. Hal Roach looks pained, as though Hal Roach cannot bear to see his work treated in this way; that, or Hal Roach fears being beaned with it.
I’d wish you a merry Christmas, says Hal Roach, but I don’t know if it’s appropriate after what you’ve been through. Where will you spend it?
—South Palm.
—With your sister-in-law?
—No, I don’t think so. We’ve decided that it might be best if she and the kids move into their own place. I’ve found somewhere for them.
—How’s she doing?
—Not good.
Hal Roach puts his hands in his pockets.
He waits.
—You been in touch with Lois? says Hal Roach.
—No.
Have you? he wants to ask, but decides against it.
It’s a damned shame, says Hal Roach. She’s a lovely girl. But you never know. At this time of year, people start reflecting on family. They get to put things in perspective.
He does not want to hear this, not from Hal Roach.
—Maybe you could have someone issue a press release. The paths of happiness may have been cleared of dead leaves by now.
Hal Roach takes the hit before landing one in return.
—If you put your girlfriend in one of my pictures again, you and I will have a serious disagreement.
The meeting is over.