In Theda Bara's Tent (as Reviewed by Publisher's Weekly)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Because newsreels lasted about twelve minutes, only seven or eight stories were selected from about two dozen possibilities. Most of our footage went unused; the outtakes and cut negatives were sent up to the archives. Sandwiched between cartoons and the feature, newsreels could show nothing that might threaten the parents and children sitting in the dark. Our job was to entertain. Those of us who worked at Fox were forever having to calm down the new employees who angrily maintained that we were feeding pabulum to the public. Newsreels were blamed for being trivial. I was always perplexed by the people who thought the public should get hard information about the world in the same movie show in which they paid admission to be entertained. If they saw scenes of real torture, would they buy another ticket? I remembered how bitter Kenny was when his footage of Lenins funeral was rejected. It was his first overseas assignment. He flew to Moscow, not an easy task, photographed Lenin embalmed on a slab while lines of Russians filed by to look at the body.  The theater reps wouldn’t show it. They said the footage was too controversial. There might be a communist sympathizer in the audience who would applaud Lenin. That would cause someone else to hiss Lenin, and a fight might erupt and ruin everyones night out.

      When I was considering a story, I asked myself just one question: What does everyone like to see? Heres my list:
1. Laughing baby, especially when the baby is with a kitten or a puppy.
2. Unusual people: midgets, giants, Siamese twins and athletes with one leg.
3. Pretty girls: beauty contestants, fashion models and starlets.
4. Daredevils: a brother and sister balanced on a board for twenty-four hours, fifteen stories above Fifth Avenue. A man tightrope walking between skyscrapers.
5. Celebrities, including statesmen, kings, actors, comedians, authors, dancers, musicians, scientists and sportsmen.

 Based on the mail we received every day, I learned that the public liked to see silly things. I did too. Id never forgotten myself as a boy going to the movies in Haverhill, so sad, so angry at Uncle Sonny, so frightened of the bullies at the orphanage, sitting in the dark carried out of myself by the images on the flickering screen.
An interview with Nick Meadows would be well received. We’d use the fan- magazine format: he has fame and fortune, but underneath hes just a regular guy. We would show him at home in weekend clothes relaxing among his things (I hoped those things would include a bewitching dog with a perky face, cut to him in public surrounded by swooning females and finish with a closeup and a long gaze directly into the lens that would last long enough for the women sitting in the dark to feel their hearts twitch.
Most singers refused to be photographed for newsreels in the silent days because they looked strange singing with no sound coming out.  Hearst has asked him, Universal has asked him, Pathé has asked him, said Bernie, Niko’s agent. The policy with Nick Meadows is no newsreels. Period. As for meeting Anita Stewart, he wont do it. You know how many people want to meet Nick Meadows? Do you have any idea at all? You know how many fan letters he gets every day? Imagine a mail truck. Then imagine a convoy of mail trucks, and thats only the half of it. You should see what they send him. Naked pictures, begging him. You wouldnt believe it. We have a staff hired just to answer the fan letters, and half the time the girls quit from what they see when they open the envelopes. Im sorry to disappoint you, but my hands are tied.
Do me one favor, Bernie. Tell him Harry Sirkus phoned. See what he says. Bernie agreed.
One of the secretaries hurried to my desk. Your Stalins are here.
Did you weed them out?
I sent four home. One of them looked like Abraham Lincoln.
The purpose of the Stalins was to find someone to stand in for the real man when we faked segments about Russia. We already had our caption for the Stalin segment: Joseph Stalin, a political name adopted when he was thirty-four, meaning Man of Steel. His real name? Dzhugashvili. Son of a shoemaker.

         I distributed photographs of Stalin to Freckles and his friends. Their job was to find a man who looked like the photograph and persuade that man to go to the Fox studio for an audition. They would get five dollars for each candidate we chose to audition. They scoured the docks and the railway yards, and here was the result: twelve Stalins wandering around on the first floor, tripping over cables, getting in the way of a fashion shoot with models wearing capes made of feathers. We tried to get the men to stay in a cluster off to the side, but some of them didn’t understand English.
It was a funny sight,  if you weren’t one of the people working there and getting interrupted. At last, the Stalins gathered at one end of the studio and lined up. Why all those men looking slightly like Stalin with big mustaches and dark hair seemed so funny to me, I dont know, but I did know that what was amusing to me was amusing to others. Get me a cameraman,” I whispered to my assistant. He found Irwin Meggins, who had just returned from the Gobi Desert shooting skeletons of Mesozoic dinosaurs that were found there. This is a segment called the Stalin look-alike contest, I whispered to Irwin when he lugged his camera to the set. Thats the only caption. Irwin set up some lights, and the Stalins began to preen, smoothing their mustaches, their hair and straightening their clothes. Just keep cranking, I said. 

You sure? Irwin said. He knew how angry it made Mr. Fox when we used too much film. I lined up the Stalins, had them put their arms around one another’s shoulders and take a step left, step right, step left. It was mean of me, I guess, to take advantage of them that way, to make them look like chorus girls when they were earnestly thinking that maybe they would become movie stars, but I did it anyway. Much to my surprise, some of the Stalins broke from the line to show us their specialty. One squatted down, folded his arms and thrust his legs out, yelling “Hoopa! Hoopa!” Another balanced on his hands. Another played his accordion. As the shoot progressed, the people on the neighboring sets wandered over to watch and applaud. Irwin turned his lens on the models who were watching in their feather capes. One of the Stalins grabbed a model and danced her around the floor with so much energy, she was weak from laughing.
My assistant signaled me from across the room. I waved him away. He knew not to interrupt a shoot. He gestured in a more insistent way. I mouthed, Who?
Nick Meadows!

Keep the shoot going, I said to the cameraman and hurried to the telephone. I was not sure how I felt about a reunion with Niko. Our memory lane was so full of ruts. Bad enough to remember all that surrounded my fleeing Haverhill and the terror of my first day alone in Boston picking up that tossed corn muffin and cramming it into my mouth. But I remembered Niko as someone entirely self-centered, and I wasn’t sure I wanted him in my life now that I had a choice. My assistant was so star struck, he just stood there until I gave him the “get lost” face. Nick! I barked in my least favorite slap-on-the-back voice, strident manliness.
Mr. Sirkus? A pleasant male voice asked. This is Nick Meadows personal assistant. Is this a convenient time to speak?
He couldn’t even call me himself? Fine, fine. In the middle of a shoot but fine.
Mr. Meadows has asked me to telephone you.
So I see.
He is sorry to disappoint you, but he does not appear in newsreels.
I know. His agent told me.
Mr. Meadows has extended an invitation to his home. Is tomorrow night convenient?

Tomorrow? Where does he live?
I am not at liberty to divulge that information.
I knew it was silly to resent Niko not calling me himself. He was a big star. People from his past were probably always wanting special attention from him.
If you wont divulge, how am I supposed to get there?
There is a train from Grand Central Station to New Rochelle. He will send a car to meet you there. Is eight oclock convenient?
How will I recognize his car?
Oh, its easy to spot. Its a Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost. Will it be possible for you to dine with him at his home? Just one more thing, Mr. Sirkus. Mr. Meadows does not allow any photography or camera equipment of any kind. He is sure you will understand his caution.
Naturally. He is jealous of his privacy.
Exactly. Thank you so much.

I ran back to finish the Stalin shoot. My Stalin look-alike contest, nestled between shots of Knute Rockne at Notre Dame and J. Edgar Hoover who had just been appointed director of the F.B.I., was shown in more than three thousand theaters.
The white Rolls-Royce driven by a uniformed chauffeur was a gleaming show dog among mutts parked at the New Rochelle station, where wives at the wheel of ordinary cars waited for commuter husbands. The chauffeur looked up from his newspaper and showed me an angelic face, pink cheeks and full lips. Im Harry Sirkus. Are you here for me? He sprang out, held the back door open for me, and I settled into plush gray upholstery. We drove by small houses with their porch lights on and past acres of farmland with wilted cornstalks. A dot of light in the middle of the street became a shepherds lantern when we got close enough to see. He was urging his flock across the road, an unusual sight at night. A black-and-white border collie ran from one side of the flock to the other, keeping the sheep moving in an orderly fashion until they were all the way across North Avenue.
Eventually, we turned onto a winding road, then onto a dirt road. At the end of the dirt road was an iron gate. A uniformed guard came out of the brick gatehouse, nodded to the chauffeur, and we passed through. There were no lights on the dirt drive, but in the dimness, I saw tall trees in silhouette on either side. The narrow driveway opened out to reveal a clapboard mansion with a mansard roof. Wow! What a house! I said to the driver.
These are the stables, sir, he said as we passed by.
At last we came to a brick Tudor-style mansion that had a fountain in front with water cascading from a huge marble seashell decorated with naked Greek warriors. The chauffeur opened the car door for me, then drove away. The door knocker was a lascivious satyrs face made of brass. I lifted it and let it thud against the door, which set off a herd of dogs yowling, woofing, arfing wa, wa, wa. There was scrambling behind the door, toenails clicking on marble, and finally someone shouted, Enough! Lay off!

The din stopped, and the door opened onto a foyer paneled with mirrors. Six boxers—caramel colored, sturdy chested, handsome if you liked jowly dogs—all looked at me about to spring at my throat, so it seemed, until I stepped inside. They cringed toward me, whining, turning in circles with their tail stumps wagging, longing to leap up and show me an enthusiastic greeting but trained not to. To be polite, I touched one and noted how silky clean its fur felt. The butler, yet another handsome young man in uniform, said, Be good doggies. Go to your beds. They obeyed as if they understood English, toenails clicking on marble as they retreated down the hall. The butler said, Good evening, sir. Please forgive this unusual welcome. Mr. Meadows is expecting you.
I followed him down the corridor. There was nothing wry in the way he delivered his lines or the least bit familiar, though we were probably close to the same age. He wasn’t pretending to be a butler; he really was one, without any hint that he thought he was too good for the job. He wasnt like the waiters in Greenwich Village who were really actors or artists and made sure you knew they were equal to you, if not better. I took a calming breath to prepare myself for the crowd that awaited me, Nikos entourage: admirers, sycophants, business people, fellow performers. The butler opened the door to an art-deco living room, white and ebony, and announced, Mr. Sirkus, sir, and softly closed the door behind me.

Niko, brushed and polished, glossy as a thoroughbred, sat in a forest-green leather armchair sipping a martini. He was alone, dressed in a paisley smoking jacket, white silk ascot, white jodhpurs and black boots. His hair was coifed—no other word for it. The room was spectacular, a stage set of the latest in streamlined design.
At the sight of me, his mouth opened slightly in surprise, probably because he remembered a much younger boy. He set the martini glass down and came toward me. I cant go out, he said. Im a prisoner. He stopped before he was close enough to shake hands. I remembered this greeting from the first time we met, the steady gaze of bright blue, the slight smile meant to show patience as he absorbed the admiration he saw on everyones face: Here I am—gaze upon me. He turned away, walked back to his chair and lifted the drink that waited on the table. They mob me. They pull off my buttons. They want pieces of my hair. He sat down, gestured to the leather chair across from his. Fame is a curse.
Pays well, I said, sitting down and noticing how much more comfortable this chair was than the one Kenny and I found on the street and lugged up to our apartment.
He erupted in a loud guffaw, a sound I remembered. It was a laugh that came from somewhere very deep and was almost alarming. Mirror, mirror on the wall,” he said, taking a sip of his drink and raising his eyebrow at me, “who’s the richest of them all?”
The butler opened the door. You rang, sir?
Fix our guest one of these, he said holding up his martini. The butler went to the bar, made the concoction, shook it vigorously, brought it to me on a silver tray and departed. Heres to Nick Meadows, Niko said, holding his glass toward me. Whoever that is.
Its not you? I took a sip and said, “Delicious!” with my eyebrows though I’d never had a martini before. It was bitter, and its action was immediate.

He makes a good one. Arent you wondering how he knew to come in here? Niko moved his foot. Its under the rug. Its a bell under the rug. I can call him just by pressing my foot down. My parents had the same thing, only it was by my fathers chair in the dining room. He could never find it. Hed try to call the maid, and hed stamp here, there, here—my mother getting irritated, until finally Id drop down from my chair, crawl to where he sat, find the bump under the carpet and press it while my mother said, Nicholas. Sit down. Get out from under there. Again the loud guffaw. Wait a minute. Wasnt his father a brute and his mother confined in a hospital in New Hampshire? And wasn’t he so penniless he had to work in a stable mucking stalls? Catch me up. Youre at Fox News.
Well, I left the barn about a year after...
And now you want me to pose for Fox News. Dont write it off yet. Im thinking about it. Did you see that fountain when you came in? Guess how much that cost.
A fortune of money? Louies phrase.
Everyone thinks I want to be in pictures. I dont want to be in pictures. What kind of life is that, sitting around all day. Clara Bow sends me a telegram: What a team wed make. Gloria Swanson, same thing. DeMille came in person to beg me. I said to Bernie—hes the best agent in the business—I dont give a damn if it is DeMille. You dont give my address to anyone unless I say so. Everyone wants a piece of me.

See these pants? Rudolph Valentino wore them in Blood and Sand. These very pants. I bought them from a friend of mine in the costume department at Lasky. Look at these boots. They arent boots, see? He wiggled his toes. Theyre like slipper socks. Had them made for me. Got the idea from the American Indians, but mine dont have the beading. Do you think I should have them beaded? He brushed his hair with a sweep of fingers. Hope you didnt eat. My chef is brilliant.
 The door opened, and a young man breezed in wearing white silk trousers and a white silk shirt. He had blond hair and was good looking in a delicate way and tan as if just back from a sunny resort. Toby, said Niko, say hello to Harry.”
     Toby walked toward me like a model, one foot directly in front of the other, extended a limp hand, let me squeeze it and proceeded to the sideboard. No more olives, he said. How can a person have a martini without an olive?
Where do you think they all went?
I havent had that many.
He drinks too much, Niko said to me.
I do not.
Do too.
Do not.

Do too. But isnt he gorgeous? Niko looked to me for confirmation, and I hoped I was hiding my embarrassment. Come see my art collection. We left Toby nursing his martini and walked down the marble corridor. Niko opened a door and switched on lights in a cavernous space with walls covered with modern paintings, each one with its own small light shining down on it.  Come, he said. Ill introduce you. This is Picasso. You see how he doesnt even try to make the face like a photograph? Its called abstract. This is Miro, heres Braque, heres Paul Klee—dont say klee but clay. These are my friends, Harry. They all come down for the Masked Ball. Youll come this year. New Years Eve. Can you afford a costume?
Yes, I said, annoyed. I can afford a costume.
Everyone goes all out. Have someone in the costume department at Fox make something for you.
Im not a pauper.
No? Then you need a new tailor.” We strolled around the gallery pausing to give each painting its due, me wondering what exactly was wrong with my clothes. They fit; they were comfortable. Im just warning you, thats all. Youll feel out of place if you dont go all out. Its a big event.
Ill bring a cameraman, I said to annoy him.
Iksnay on that. And Im not kidding. As he turned off the lights he said, My agent, Bernie, tells me you know Anita Stewart. Do you know her well enough to invite her?
Yes.

Then do. Bring Anita Stewart.
Why?
He lowered his voice as we walked down the corridor. Toby’s crazy about her. A birthday present. He turns twenty-one that day. Just between us, okay?
I cant promise you, Niko. I have no idea what her schedule is. Far as I know, shes going back to the Coast on Saturday. Could this be why he asked me here? If she cant come, am I uninvited?
No, no, no. Of course, come, he said.    
Why dont you just invite Anita Stewart yourself? Shes a big fan of yours. Listens to your records.
Then Id have to extend myself to everyone, wouldnt I? Id have to do something equal for Mae Murray, Clara Bow and Florence Turner. Things get around. Nick Meadows invited me to his house. You? Why didnt he invite me?

 We walked down the corridor and into the dining room where we came upon Toby, melancholy at the table. Instantly, he changed his expression to perky. I like to surround myself with good-looking people, Nick said, sitting at the head of the table, Toby on one side, me on the other, the rest of the table stretching away from us. I can seat twenty-five in here, he said. Had the cast party here when Toby played in Eugene ONeills Desire under the Elms. What a performance! The critics singled him out.
The butler served dinner while Niko told us about the important people he met in Milan, London, Paris.
Toby said, apropos of nothing, Im an orphan.
His aunt brought him up, said Niko. She preferred her own children.
Toby said, Shed come into the breakfast room and say, ‘Who wants to go to the carousel in Central Park?’ Wed all say, ‘Me, me, me!’ And guess who she wouldnt take. Shed say, ‘The maid cant handle so many children. Toby, you can go next time.’
I looked across the table at Toby, everything about him so soft, smooth and pampered, and I hated his whining until he lifted his eyes to mine, and I saw him pleading with me to like him. May she rot in hell! I said holding my glass toward him.
Ill drink to that! said Toby, and we clinked glasses, ping! The note hung in the air.
They were going to send me to a farm in Kansas, I said, loosened by drink.
I played Kansas, Niko said. The Baltimore Hotel. You want to hear jazz, you go to Kansas City. In one district of the city alone, there are over fifty night clubs. All the greats play there: Jack Teagarden, Ma Rainey, Bessie Smith, Duke Ellington, Benny Moten. Ive seen them all. He tore a roll and mopped up gravy. The Novelty Club had a band that consisted of Count Basie, Jo Jones, Hot Lips Page and Lester Young. Anyone can just walk in to the jam sessions.
After dinner, we staggered into a wood-paneled library with an upright piano against a wall. A small projector was set up on a table aimed at a movie screen. This machine, Niko said, is the Bell & Howell Filmo 70. Uses 16-mm film. He threaded the projector. Toby, get the lights. The machine whirred, clacked, clicked with images of Nick clowning in front of the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, clowning in front of the Tivoli Fountain in Rome, Nick and Toby sitting at a café wearing berets.
 Toby went to the piano. Dont mind me, he said. Ive seen these a billion trillion times. He began to play a jaunty popular song and sing, Masculine women, feminine men. Which is the rooster, which is the hen? It's hard to tell 'em apart today! And, say! Sister is busy learning to shave, brother just loves his permanent wave. It's hard to tell 'em apart today! Hey, hey! Girls were girls and boys were boys when I was a tot. Now we don't know who is who, or even what's what! Knickers and trousers, baggy and wide. Nobody knows who's walking inside. Those masculine women and feminine men!
I applauded. I told you hes talented, said Niko, threading yet another home movie.
Ive had a long day, I said getting up. Thats probably enough for tonight.

Toby said, Im going to have a nightcap for medicinal purposes and swayed across the hall to the living room. Niko touched my shoulder and beckoned for me to follow him, putting his finger to his lips, a secret. I followed him upstairs to a bedroom of satin pillows and a circular bed. This is Tobys room, he said. Just wanted to show you something before I send you to the station.
 In Tobys dressing room, with walls of mirror, he opened a closet. Recognize any of these things? I didnt. He lifted out a fur-trimmed evening cloak. Anita Stewart wore this in The Combat. Not this very one. An exact copy.
Toby wears that?
When he goes to pansy clubs, sure. Look. He took out gowns and capes, naming the movies, from The Lucky Elopement, from A Million Bid. “Remember this from The Glory of Yolanda? I was speechless. You can see for yourself how beautiful Toby is. Why shouldnt he have clothes he likes? He shut the closet door. So now you can see what a swell birthday present it would be to introduce him to his idol at the New Years ball. Not too much to ask of an old friend, right? He gave my arm a comradely punch, but it stung and I rubbed it for comfort all the way to the station. I had no intention of going to his stupid party or of ever seeing him again. Maybe Anita would go back to the Coast, and I’d be sprung from my promise.