Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer,
Culver City, California
Summer 1928
Irving slammed the scenario for West of Zanzibar on his desk and barked out his secretary’s name.
The clack-clack-clack of Goldie’s Underwood typewriter halted. She appeared in the doorway. “You screamed for me?”
He dropped into his chair, ashamed that he’d behaved like those loud-mouthed swellheads from the front office. “I can’t find the budget analysis for White Shadows in the South Seas. It was here ten minutes ago. I need it for my meeting with Mayer.”
“Which is in seven minutes.”
“Hence the screaming.”
Goldie was at his desk in a trice, helping him to look under the stacks of reports and scenarios. He’d always adhered to the adage that an orderly desk reflects an orderly mind, but since returning from Europe five months before, it had looked more like a scrapheap.
Goldie dipped out of sight and reemerged with the White Shadows report in her hand. “What you need is a larger desk.”
He took it from her and added it to the pile sitting on his chair, then scooped up the whole lot and started heading for the door. “What I need is a boss who’ll do his job.”
By the time he’d arrived at Mayer’s building, the August noonday sun had glazed him in a layer of sweat. It wasn’t the air of the composed business executive he liked to present, but he wasn’t in the mood to care.
Mayer’s secretary resembled the type of woman who spent her days sewing needlepoint and running Women’s Auxiliary bake sales. In reality, though, she was nothing of the sort. She sat, straight as a flagpole, holding a red pencil, correcting a book report from a studio reader.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Thalberg.”
“And good afternoon to you, Miss Koverman.” He cupped his fingers to his left ear. “I don’t hear him howling at anyone. May I assume it’s safe to enter?”
“He’s not there.”
If he had been in his office with only Goldie to witness, he would have slammed his load of papers on the desk. But Miss Ida Koverman did not approve of crude theatrics.
“Where is he? More importantly, when will he be back?”
“Mr. Mayer is in Washington, D.C.”
“Wasn’t he there last week?”
“Mr. Hoover wanted to confer with him about his candidacy. The election is only three months away.”
“Doesn’t Hoover have a telephone?”
“I wasn’t privy to the conversation. However, Mr. Mayer promised to call in a few times a day—”
“And has he?”
“So far it’s been more like every other morning.”
“Meanwhile, what am I supposed to do?” Irving hoisted his bundle and thrust it toward her. “These are just the urgent decisions.”
“I shall have him call you as soon as he contacts me. I’m sorry, but it’s the best I can do.”
The stack of papers was growing heavy; he hugged it to his chest like a shield.
Outside, the sun stung his forehead and prickled his scalp. If L.B. races to the East Coast every time Hoover pulls out his dog whistle, he griped to himself, what will it be like if the guy becomes president? Okay. Fine. But give me the authority to make all the decisions.
He heard the harsh rasp of a lathe inside the carpentry shop as he passed.
Give me Mayer’s salary, too, and I’ll accomplish seventy-two hours’ worth of work, day in, day out—
The papers slipped from his grasp as though they’d been pushed. He watched them hit the asphalt and scatter in the breeze blowing in from Santa Monica.
But he didn’t budge.
He couldn’t.
Bend down and pick them up, he told himself, before they’re blown all over the lot.
He stared at them instead, unable to move.
A thumping inside his chest caught his attention. Boom-boom! Boom-boom! He took a deep breath, but it didn’t help. Boom-boom! Boom-boom! He curled his hands into fists; within seconds his strength gave out and his fingers fell limp.
Oh God, no. Not again.
Boom-boom! Boom-boom!
He examined the backs of his shaking hands. They were suet white.
He forced himself to his knees and made out like he was casually picking up the papers he’d dropped. Another full breath. It wasn’t as deep as he’d have liked, but it calmed his runaway heart. He drew in another. Deeper this time. The boom-boom slowed to a thud-thud. Another breath. Deeper. The thud became more of a throb.
“You look like you need a hand.”
Lenore Coffee was a perceptive, articulate woman. Dark haired and quick eyed, and one of his favorite screenwriters. She knelt by his side and started collecting up his papers.
“Everything okay?” she whispered. “You’re not—in trouble, are you?”
“Just an attack of the oops.”
“We all have those from time to time.”
He wanted to say that he didn’t, but the quicker they reassembled his bundle, the sooner he could seek the cool sanctuary of his office. He thanked Lenore for her help and hurried away as soon as all his papers were in hand.
Back at his office, he hurried past Goldie’s desk, mumbling instructions that he wasn’t to be disturbed, and closed the door. Whatever it had been, he was reasonably sure it hadn’t been a heart attack, so what was—
“You all right, boss?”
Paul Bern put his head around the door. He was a serious man with somber eyes and a high forehead. At thirty-nine, his dark hair was already thinning. He was well read and articulate, more than most, which was why Irving had hired him away from Paramount—not that he had a specific job for the guy. But Irving knew talent when he spotted it, and in the movie business, talent was what counted. He would figure out later how best to harness the potential that Bern showed. But not now. Irving wanted to be alone.
He collapsed into his chair more heavily than he would have liked. “We don’t have a meeting scheduled, do we?”
“No. But I happened to be looking out the window when I saw you . . . stumble.”
“Oh, that?” Irving set about straightening his wad of papers. The top sheet had a palm-sized sweat stain; he dropped it in the trash can. “Lenore came to my rescue. Have you met her yet? She’s sharp, that one.”
“Good with dialogue, I hear.”
“Very good, yes.”
“Speaking of which, I’ve been thinking about these talkies.” When Irving and Norma were honeymooning in Europe, the name had already evolved from ‘talkers’ to ‘talkies,’ which demonstrated how quickly the situation was changing. “I saw The Lights of New York last night. Have you subjected yourself to it?”
Irving hadn’t wanted to see Warners’ first all-talking picture after the New York critics had described it as “appalling.” But then came reports of long lines at every box office where it played. When Irving had finally seen it at the L.A. opening, he had agreed with the critics. The picture was amateur filmmaking at its worst, but Zanuck had been right when he’d told Variety that The Jazz Singer had turned audience on to sound, but The Lights of New York had turned them on to talk.
Irving had walked out accepting that talking pictures weren’t going away.
He flipped his medal into the air. “Yes, I’ve seen it.”
“Terrible, isn’t it?”
“Atrocious.”
“Word around town is that it could make as much as a million. Not bad for a twenty grand outlay. We can’t afford to ignore what’s happening.”
“We’re contracted with thirteen thousand independent theaters, so transitioning to sound requires that we make the right decisions from the start. But how? We still don’t even have a sound department.”
“We need to start one.”
“How do I hire somebody when I don’t know the first thing about the technicalities?”
“You find somebody you trust.”
“Do you know anyone who fits that bill?”
Paul shook his head. “But you do. In fact, you’re related to him.”
Irving ran through the various members of his family but came up blank. “Who?”
“Norma’s brother, Douglas.”
Irving swiped his medal out of the air. “He only works on those Rin Tin Tin pictures.”
“At Warner Brothers.”
“But not in the sound department—”
“—which is all of three people. So, no, he doesn’t. But he’s right there, where the talkies were invented. He’s better than nobody, which is what you’ve got right now. And being Norma’s brother, I’m guessing his loyalties might be greater if he came to work here instead.”
Irving tried not to smile too broadly. His instincts about Paul Bern had been on the money. He strummed his ink blotter as he pictured Norma’s brother. Dark like his sister, but more serious. “I’d never have thought of him.”
“How sensational would it be for audiences to go see an MGM movie and hear Leo the Lion roar out loud? And what better picture than White Shadows in the South Seas?” He held up a hand, palm outward, to silence Irving’s objections. “Yes, I know. There are no lions on the Pacific islands, but if you get Douglas Shearer over here and if he can add sound to all those Polynesian animals and birds and crashing surf, plus an actual roaring lion—can you imagine?”
“You are absolutely right on all points. Good work. Terrific, in fact.”
Paul tilted his head humbly. “You’re welcome.”
“You got any suggestions about what I can do with Joan Crawford?”
“What’s her beef? Across to Singapore did great, didn’t it? And from what I hear Our Dancing Daughters will knock it out of the park.”
Irving sighed. “That girl won’t be happy until she’s crowned the undisputed Queen of MGM.”
“That’s hardly likely as long as Garbo and your wife are around.”
“Doesn’t stop her pushing and pushing, though.”
“Let’s see if I can talk some sense into her.”
Irving fixed Paul with a hopeful eye, but hid his wariness. There’d been chatter around town that Paul could be the fixated type when it came to women—actresses in particular. But Irving hadn’t seen evidence of it firsthand, so for the time being, he was inclined to give this guy the benefit of the doubt. “You think you can?”
“My dealings with Clara Bow taught me plenty about handling women like her.”
Paul had relieved Irving of his two biggest headaches, leaving him to wish he’d had this guy to turn to years ago. It might have made his solitary burdens easier to shoulder. “That would be great.”
“You leave it to me.” But the guy made no effort to depart.
“Is there anything else?”
“I’ve heard some news from a pal of mine at United Artists.” He bent forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Joe Schenck and Douglas Fairbanks have initiated negotiations with one of your main stars.”
Irving ran his thumb over the calming surface of his silver medal. “Who?”
“Jack Gilbert.”
Jack’s house stood on a bluff overlooking Los Angeles, set amid the winding streets coiled around the canyons north of the Beverly Hills Hotel. A thickly wooded tangle of trees, shrubs, and wildflowers helped protect him from his more ardent female fans.
The front doors of black-painted oak had a massive iron knocker shaped like a fist. Irving pounded it until he heard Jack call out from deep inside the house.
“Jesus Christ! Who is it?”
“It’s me. Irving.”
The door squeaked open to reveal a disheveled Jack in an emerald smoking jacket. It lay open in front, and the belt hung off its loops like a discarded snake skin. Underneath, he wore satin pajamas, pink as flamingos. A dark yellow stain splattered his chest; the stench of brandy radiated off him.
“It must be three o’clock in the afternoon, ol’ boy.” Jack blinked slowly as he slurred his words. “Don’t tell me that Metro’s famous seven-day-a-week workhorse is playing hooky? Come on in. This calls for a drink.”
He stepped aside to let Irving enter. The last time Irving had been in Jack’s living room, medieval-style tapestries had draped the walls. But now they were painted a light sky blue, and reproduction seventeenth-century Spanish furniture in walnut crowded the space. In the whole time Irving had known Jack, this house hadn’t remained the same on two successive visits.
“It’s four-fifteen and you’re clearly a couple of glasses in.”
“I may have indulged in a sip or two at luncheon.” Jack raked his fingers through his thick, black hair, which stuck out in all directions.
When had he washed it last? Or even brushed it? “We must talk.”
“Oh, dear. Little Irving’s wearing his boss-man face.”
On the drive up the twists and turns of Tower Grove Road, Irving had decided to keep this meeting on a strictly professional level. He was John Gilbert’s boss, and he was here to negotiate a business transaction. But that crack about “little Irving” burned his innards like lit gasoline.
Irving hurled his fedora toward the low-slung table in the center of the room. “How could you?”
Jack flopped onto the sofa. “How could I what?”
“Be negotiating with another studio.”
He patted his pockets. “I don’t see why you’re getting so worked up.”
“How long have we worked together? How closely? And how hard have I toiled to ensure that you’re paired with the most popular actresses? Garbo, Crawford, Gish. Not to mention directors. Von Stroheim. Goulding. Vidor.”
“You did, and I thank you for it. But didn’t I bring a certain je ne sais quoi to the table?”
“You did.”
“So what are we fighting about?”
“United Artists, and how you’re talking about signing with them.”
“No, we’re not.” Jack found what he was searching for on a credenza sitting beneath a broad window that framed a cactus garden. He picked up a half-empty tumbler of brandy and inhaled a deep slug that would have choked Irving. “We’re fighting about how I didn’t come to you first.”
“Can you blame me? After everything I’ve done for you?”
“My contract is ending soon, so I was looking at my options. Because let’s face it, they’re pretty bleak at Metro.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Talkies are coming and I’m no stage-trained actor.”
“Neither are half the players on our roster—including my wife. So if that’s what’s bothering you—”
“None of the people on that roster of yours are in Mayer’s crosshairs.”
“We’re not back at that again, are we?”
Jack started closing the space between them. “I punched him in the face and then he yelled, ‘I’ll destroy you if it costs me a million dollars!’”
“He was angry.”
“So was I.”
“He had good cause to be.”
“So did I!” Another slug. “The woman I love left me at the altar.”
Irving didn’t know the latest status of the Gilbert/Garbo relationship, but he saw no sign of her here now. The house was 100% Jack. “If L.B. was going to scuttle your career, he would have done it by now.”
“Not if my contract still had two years to run. But now it’s up for renewal, so I’m getting the jump on him before he screws me over.”
“Screws you over—how?”
“I told you already: talking pictures.”
“But you have a perfectly fine voice for recording.”
A final slug and Jack’s glass was empty. He tottered over to the bar—a table with a motif of Moorish castles in black lacquer—and poured himself a more-than-generous helping of Hennessy VS cognac. “Unless Mayer screws with the recording.” He lifted his bottle. Irving waved away the offer. Someone in this room needed to stay sober.
“And what, exactly, do you think he’s going to do?”
“Make me sound like a kazoo.”
“We barely even know how to record sound, let alone tamper with it. You’re being paranoid.”
Jack cocked a bitter eyebrow. “I bet you a thousand bucks that I won’t sound like John Barrymore.” He lit a cigarillo with an enameled lighter sitting on a side table. “I’m two brandies and a highball away from being a has-been.”
Irving joined him on the couch. “I know you’ve had a rough few years. Your movies haven’t been doing as well as they used to and so you probably feel like you’re slipping.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“Maybe if you quit drinking in the middle of the afternoon, ate better, and got some sun, your performances would improve, and along with them your box office appeal. You could have a career renaissance.”
Jack grunted as if to say, I’ll believe that when I see it.
“Tell me, what are United Artists offering?”
“Two hundred grand per picture, maximum three pictures a year, three-year contract.”
Irving wished he’d accepted that offer of a brandy. It was a staggering amount for someone who’d had only one decent hit in the past couple of years, and that was mostly because Garbo had been his co-star.
“I think we can match that,” he said quietly.
“You’ll have to better it. Nobody at UA is out to sabotage me.”
“Jack, nobody—”
“For that kind of money, I won’t have to worry. So why don’t you scurry off to Mayer and run all this past him. I’ll bet you another thousand he says ‘Tell Gilbert to go fuck himself!’ Whether he does or not, I’ll need to know by the twentieth, because that’s when the boys at United want an answer.”
Six days. Who even knew if L.B. would be back from Washington by then?
Screw it.
And screw L.B. too.
Irving stole Jack’s brandy out of his hand and took a slug. “Two hundred and fifty grand per picture, two pictures a year, three-year contract.”
Jack bolted upright. “Are you sure you’re empowered to—”
“Take it or leave it.”
He pumped Irving’s hand like a varsity rower. “Thank you, old sport. I’d have taken the UA deal, but Metro is home. You know that, don’t you?”
Irving was close enough now to see the glassiness in Jack’s eyes. Was he about to cry or was it the Hennessy? Either way, it felt as though things might get uncomfortably overemotional. Not for nothing was John Gilbert known as the best in the business for portraying men in love.
The heat of the day had subsided. Houses up in the Hollywood Hills caught the cool ocean gusts that homes like Irving’s down on the flats of Beverly Hills missed out on.
Slickum opened the passenger door. “Everything okay, boss?”
Irving nodded as he slid onto the back seat. But was it? He had proposed an outrageous sum. He could already hear Mayer’s reaction. “Two-fifty? For that bum?” But it was better to keep a faltering Gilbert within the walls of MGM than let him waltz into the arms of a rival. And what could Mayer do about it if he didn’t return from D.C. until after the papers had been signed?
The gravel beneath the tires crunched as Slickum threw the car into a U-turn and followed the driveway back to Tower Grove Road.
Would I have fought so hard if Jack hadn’t been a buddy?
Would I have made that offer if friendships like Jack’s weren’t so rare?
Would I have chosen a personal relationship over the financial wellbeing of the studio if L.B. hadn’t been so absent, so often, and for so long?
Maybe.
Maybe not.
It was impossible to say.
He settled back into his seat and stared at the passing scenery.
L.B. would think twice the next time Herbert Hoover called.