Platinum Doll

The chosen extras were herded inside a vast soundstage. Cloth-draped tables encircled a large dance floor and huge Georgian-style faux windows, covered with silk draperies tied back with claret-colored cords, gave the illusion of an elegant restaurant dining room.

There was a group of tuxedo-clad actors standing around joking as Harlean and the others came in. The extras were each told to take a seat, then wait for an assistant director to move them around in what felt to Harlean like a game of musical chairs. After everyone was settled, she found herself wedged tightly at a table beside a stout, white-haired woman wearing a rhinestone tiara and a long necklace of amber-colored glass beads.

“Any idea what the picture is called?” Harlean asked the older woman as she took out a cigarette and casually lit it with a gold lighter.

“Not a clue. But a paycheck is a paycheck. Lula Hanford,” she said in a slightly graveled, no-nonsense tone.

Harlean was struck by the unique name. It was lovely.

“Jean Harlow.”

“You’re new around the lot, aren’t you?”

“Does it show that much?”

She knew she probably sounded as green as grass, and looked it, as well.

Lula gave a raspy chuckle and exhaled a cloud of smoke as a production assistant began to fill water glasses on each of the tables, and another was shouting to the assistant director. “It only shows to an old broad like me. I’ve been around a long time, and I’ve worked with ’em all—Buster Keaton, Mary Pickford, John Barrymore...”

“No kidding?”

“Sure. They put their pants on one leg at a time just like you and me.”

“Although I bet Miss Pickford wouldn’t like her public to think of America’s Sweetheart putting on her pants, just like all the boys,” Harlean quipped in a low voice.

Lula Hanford chuckled. “You’re sharper than you look.”

“Thanks...I think.” It was quickly becoming her standard response. She knew she could use more confidence, and she meant to work on that.

“Relax, it was a compliment. A talented girl who looks like you could go far in pictures.”

“If one of them doesn’t poison my water.”

They both glanced at the next table where four sour-faced women were seated together. Each of them shot Harlean a foul glare before they looked away.

“Or trip you on your way to the toilet. That happened to me once when I was much younger, so you gotta watch out.”

“I’ll have to remember that.”

“It can happen just as easily when you’re older. I worked on a picture with Lillian Gish once and played the second lead. Beautiful girl, sweet, too, but she was always trying to steal my scenes, which I never understood since I was playing her mother.”

Harlean found herself thinking that she could learn a thing or two from this woman as the work to set up the scene continued around them. Two of the actors in white dinner jackets were being instructed on how to hold the trays. Harlean hadn’t realized before now about the details—every hat, every necktie—all needed to be in place. There was something fascinatingly meticulous about it.

“Still, that must have been so gratifying to see your name on a marquee.”

“Not another feeling in the world like it, honey,” Lula said.

“Places, everyone!” the assistant director called out. “Quiet on the set!”

Suddenly chatter, mimicking the sounds in a restaurant rose up naturally at the director’s signal. Harlean leaned forward as though she were speaking to the other woman seated across the table. Her heart was still racing, even though she struggled to look exceedingly nonchalant. She tried to imagine being a worldly young woman, and conveying it, so that if the camera caught her it would pick that up.

Being in the middle of this was certainly more exhilarating than she had expected. The dare had become a surprising pleasure.

The scene took several hours to shoot. It was shot and reshot before the slim, gaunt-faced man sitting beside her injected himself into her conversation with Lula Hanford.

“Say, weren’t we in that picture with Buck Jones a few years back?” he asked Lula.

“I love Buck Jones!” Harlean interrupted, sounding every bit seventeen, even if she didn’t look it in her gown and makeup.

“Bit pompous for my taste, but handsome enough,” said the man seated on Harlean’s other side. His eyes were bloodshot and his hands were shaking. He looked like he could use a drink. Lula looked more closely at him.

“Lloyd Bradshaw, as I live and breathe.”

“At your service,” he said with a nod.

“My, my, well, it has been a while.”

“Haven’t won many roles lately. Honestly, I’ve been struggling a bit.”

“Haven’t we all, Lloyd, haven’t we all. They’re saying talkies are about to change everything. They seem to be looking for different types now than they were when you and I were working a lot.”

“Change would be good, if there is a paycheck to be had. When I audition now, though, they keep saying my accent is too distinctive and isn’t right for the part. My voice, my accent...all we ever cared for even a couple years ago was our facial expressions and how that came across on-screen. Don’t get me wrong, though, work is work.”

Harlean thought how Lula’s dignified tone matched the image she projected, Lloyd Bradshaw’s high-pitched Bronx tenor did not. That could not bode well for his future in talking pictures.

They shot the scene again and then someone shouted out, “Take ten, everybody.”

Harlean stood to stretch her legs. She had a cramp in one of her calves. Lula stood beside her. “Not a fan of brassieres?” Lula asked as she glanced at Harlean’s chest.

“I loathe them, actually. Anything constricting makes me want to run the other way,” she admitted, and then she felt herself blush. “I was ill with scarlet fever when I was a child, and confined to my bed. After a while, it began to feel like a cage, the bedding felt like prison bars. It made me panic. Ever since then, I’ve been kind of a free spirit, I guess you could say.”

“Good thing you’ve got a small bosom, then, beauty that you are. I’d cause a riot if I tried that.”

They had a chuckle together at that. It was easy speaking with her. There was something about Lula that reminded her of her mother. Not her looks, it wasn’t that. Rather, it was seeing a gutsy woman’s more human side, a hint of vulnerability. The monotony of sitting there for all those hours had created a bond, as well. Women could talk of just about anything when that happened. This surely was not the glamorous side of Hollywood.

Harlean’s gaze then landed back on Lloyd Bradshaw who was cautiously swilling from a silver flask, then stuffing it back in his coat pocket.

“Poor Lloyd. I knew who he was the moment I saw him. We go way back. You might have guessed he’s a bit overly fond of the drink.”

As Harlean sat back down, waiting for them to call an end to the break, she noticed an extra across from them whose auburn hairpiece had slipped just slightly, revealing coils of gray beneath. He quickly adjusted it and then pridefully tipped up his chin. She had been struck by others in the group of extras, too, but to her he symbolized the struggling young actors, hopefuls and has-beens that permeated the movie industry. Perhaps she could relate more to these people than she had initially thought—they had their own insecurities, just like she did. There was weakness and pride, such dimension to all of them, once she really looked.

Filled with the newfound realization, Harlean sank against the chair as, once again, crew members began adjusting the lighting. Lloyd’s hands had stopped shaking, no doubt courtesy of the contents of his flask.

“Since it looks they’re going to be a while, tell me about the picture you did together,” Harlean asked Lula and Lloyd with genuine interest.

“It was Hearts and Spurs with that cute young Carole Lombard, if memory serves.”

“Why, yes, that was it!”

“I played a gambler. You ran the saloon,” he recalled with a broadening smile.

“We shot it in the Santa Monica Mountains. I had my own trailer on that picture.”

“We both did.” He let out a nostalgic sigh. “I thought I was really on my way to being somebody back then.”

“All right, everybody, places!” the assistant director finally called out on his bullhorn again.

For Harlean the tedium of the process was balanced by the entertaining company surrounding her. She was fascinated by the stories they began to tell, and she felt relaxed with them both. No one here knew who she was, that she had been so sheltered her whole life—or that, until she met Chuck, she had considered herself a loner and a bookworm. Nor did they care. They seemed to be taking her at face value. Today, she was just “Jean,” a new girl in the business, one who could use some advice, and camaraderie, from two seasoned professionals.

During the lunch break, as they ate bologna and cheese sandwiches and drank lukewarm coffee, she could hear a murmured conversation between the two assistant directors as they looked at her then looked away. She could see that Lula heard it, as well.

“Now, see that one, Harry, the blonde over there? I’m tellin’ you, the camera loves her. She jumps at you right through the lens. I saw it for myself when we were setting up the last shot.”

Even though they spoke in low tones, Harlean did not miss a word of their conversation. She drank it in, savored it and thought of how she might use it to her advantage. Touch the line without crossing over it—she was learning for herself that was the key.

“No fooling. Who is she?”

“How the hell should I know? She’s some extra, for now, anyway. But if she’s got an ounce of ambition, we’ll be seeing her again.”

Lula took a swallow of the cold coffee. “They’re talking about you.”

Harlean felt a sly grin turn up the corners of her mouth. Their compliment was flattering to her.

“I didn’t think I’d like this whole picture business, but I actually kind of do. Around here, no one is judging me.”

“My dear, everyone is judging you. It’s just that, for the moment, it’s in a good way.”

“How can I do what he said, come around again, get more work?”

“For that, you’ll need to be smart, and stand out for more than your looks.”

“But how can I do that?”

“To begin with, make sure your shoes are clean. Assistant directors always look at your feet first. And another thing, if you really want my advice, invest in a few smart-looking hats. You can fake clothes, but you can never fake a stylish hat.”

She thought for a moment. Those things would be easy. Her mother had given her a strong sense of fashion and her grandfather had long funded it. “Sure, I can do that.”

Lula reflected for a moment on her own advice as extras began to stand up and toss the remains of their lunch boxes into a garbage can at the end of the table. “And watch your makeup. You’ll never get a close-up if your skin isn’t flawless.”

“A close-up?”

“I assume you aren’t going to want to do extra work forever. That dress of yours alone is worth more than a lot of these folks earn in a month.”

“I hadn’t thought...”

“Well, you’ve got to think ahead. Believe me, your competition does.”

She hadn’t fully considered that it was a competition—but Lula Hanford was right, that’s just what Hollywood was—one great, big, tumultuous competition. But suddenly, the prospect actually seemed more exciting than frightening.

* * *

It had been a long day and Harlean was dragging by the time she arrived back at the house, toting her evening dress in a garment bag. Marino was making pasta and her mother was sitting at the kitchen table filing her fingernails. A lively Duke Ellington tune blared from the radio, threading through a conversation between Jean and her husband. Finally, at least it wasn’t opera she had to listen to.

Chuck came in a moment later and stood in the doorway.

“Where the devil have you been all day? I talked to Ivor and he said Rosalie hadn’t seen you.”

“No, I wasn’t with Rosalie,” she confessed.

The nail file stilled in her mother’s hand as she glanced up.

“Well, at least you’re not planning to lie now,” he grumbled.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Chuck, is that really necessary?” Jean sighed as she rolled her eyes. “Sit down, Baby, and tell us about your adventure today.”

“How the hell do you know what my wife was doing?”

“Best to watch your tone, my boy,” Marino interjected matter-of-factly as he stood stirring marinara sauce at the stove.

“A mother’s intuition, is how I know, and a mother is always right,” Jean replied in a curt tone.

Harlean sat down beside her mother as Chuck sulked around the kitchen. “It was an adventure, Mommie, an amazing one.”

“There, you see, Chuck? So, Baby, you got a casting call?”

“I went to Paramount. They called me in when you were all still asleep, and then I was chosen from a huge herd of people. Gosh, you wouldn’t believe the size of the crowd, people were everywhere and it took the whole day to shoot the one scene. It was for a picture they’re going to call Moran of the Marines. Richard Dix is the star. I saw him, Mommie, I was as close to him as I am to Marino! I made seven dollars all on my own, and they gave us a box lunch.”

“Insipid title. Sounds like Moron of the Marines.”

“Don’t be rude, Charles. Clearly, the directors could see how exceptional your wife is, the way I have seen it all along. She was picked from an enormous crowd,” Jean boasted with an overabundance of maternal pride.

“I can’t believe you went behind my back.”

“It was early, Chuck, and I just didn’t want to wake any of you, that was the only reason, honest.”

“Well, seven dollars won’t even buy a pair of those fancy buckle shoes you insist on wearing, so I sure as hell don’t see what all the fuss is about,” Chuck grumbled.

Marino set down the wooden spoon and pivoted away from the stove. His blue-black hair shimmered in the light from the milk-glass ceiling fixture. “Good gracious, boy, can’t you be happy for the Baby? She had herself an adventure. Why would you begrudge her that?”

“She’s not a baby, she’s my wife, goddammit, and I don’t see why either of you would want to get her hopes up. Particularly not you, Mrs. Bello, since you know how tough rejection is in Hollywood. You sure got enough of it yourself during your failed attempt at becoming a star.”

Jean shot to her feet. “Impertinent prig.”

“That’s enough, both of you,” Harlean said, trying in vain to run interference. “Come on, Chuck, take a walk with me till dinner’s ready.”

“Tell me this first, did you get another job?” Her mother interjected as Harlean walked over to Chuck and clutched his hand.

Harlean saw Chuck’s deep frown. His face had flushed crimson with pent-up frustration. She wanted to tell him first, and privately, once they’d gotten some fresh air and he had calmed down a bit. She knew he was already tolerating so much by having her mother and Marino here, and with her mother still needling him at every turn. Harlean was disappointed she had yet to take command of that, although she was trying.

“Well, did you?” Jean repeated anxiously.

“The assistant director took a liking to me and introduced me to a casting director before I left. Joe Egli.”

Jean gasped. “You actually met Joe Egli?”

“That’s how I got the next job. He called over to Fox where he knew they were hiring. I have a call tomorrow. It’s a prison picture called Honor Bound. It’s just another crowd scene, but it’s more work!”

“Oh!” Jean exclaimed as she drew her daughter to her chest and wrapped her into a tight embrace. “That’s my Baby! I knew if they could just see you this would happen!”

Harlean and Chuck walked outside after that and stood beneath a bright quarter moon in a breeze that was balmy and soothing. Chuck had tried to pull his hand away from hers, but Harlean had only clamped onto it more tightly, her determination overpowering his strength in the moment. She reached up and cupped his chin in the palm of her other hand. His jaw quivered at her touch.

“They’ll be gone soon. Mommie said she had an appointment lined up tomorrow to look at a house for rent.”

“God, how I hate when you call her that,” he groaned as he looked away.

“Listen, Chuck, you know how sorry I am about your mother but you don’t have to take it out on me because I still have mine.”

Harlean heard her own harsh tone the moment the words left her lips, and she was instantly sorry that she had allowed her frustration to lead her.

“I’m sorry, that was cruel of me,” she said. “There’s just so much inside you that you won’t share with me. Sometimes it’s difficult to know how to reach you, especially when it comes to that subject.”

“I don’t like you talking about her, or my father, either. I think I’ve made that pretty easy to understand.” She heard the sharp defensiveness in his tone, and she was even more ashamed of herself. She willed her next words to be spoken slowly and tenderly.

“But it might do you some good. People need to grieve, Chuck, or it’ll be like poison. It’ll tear your heart up inside.”

“How the hell would you know?” he snapped at her.

“I lost my daddy.”

“Mont Clair Carpenter is still breathing, doll,” he shot back. His tone was still harsh but now it was fragile, too. She hated how easily she could imagine him shattering. “You have no idea at all what my grief feels like.”

She put a hand on his shoulder. “I’d like to, though. I want to share everything with you, even that.”

“Well, you can’t. No one can.”

“I can’t because you won’t let me.”

“Because I can’t let you! I refuse to feel that pain, or even think about it, because there’s not a damn thing I can do to change it!”

Harlean saw tears suddenly shining in his eyes. “Do you think maybe that’s why you lash out sometimes, though?” she asked very gently.

She hoped he wouldn’t lash out at her even more for suggesting it.

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