A Stranger in the Mirror

There were days when Sam Winters felt as though he were running a lunatic asylum instead of a motion-picture studio, and that all the inmates were out to get him. This was one of those days, for the crises were piled a foot high. There had been another fire at the studio the night before - the fourth; the sponsor of "My Man Friday" had been insulted by the star of the series and wanted to cancel the show; Bert Firestone, the studio's boy-genius director, had shut down production in the middle of a five-million-dollar picture; and Tessie Brand had walked out on a picture that was scheduled to start shooting in a few days.

The fire marshal and the studio comptroller were in Sam's office.

"How bad was last night's fire?" Sam asked.

The comptroller said, "The sets are a total loss, Mr. Winters. We're going to have to rebuild Stage Fifteen completely. Sixteen is fixable, but it will take us three months."

"We haven't got three months," Sam snapped. "Get on the phone and rent some space at Goldwyn. Use this weekend to start building new sets. Get everybody moving."

He turned to the fire marshal, a man named Reilly, who reminded Sam of George Bancroft, the actor.

"Somebody sure as hell don't like you, Mr. Winters," Reilly said. "Each fire has been a clear case of arson. Have you checked on grunts?"

Grunts were disgruntled employees who had been recently fired or who felt they had a grievance against their employer.

"We've gone through all the personnel files twice," Sam replied. "We haven't come up with a thing."

"Whoever is setting these babies knows exactly what he's doing. He's using a timing device attached to a homemade incendiary. He could be an electrician or a mechanic."

"Thanks," Sam said. "I'll pass that on."

"Roger Tapp is calling from Tahiti."

"Put him on," Sam said. Tapp was the producer of "My Man Friday," the television series being shot in Tahiti, starring Tony Fletcher.

"What's the problem?" Sam asked.

"You won't fucking believe this, Sam. Philip Heller, the chairman of the board of the company that's sponsoring the show, is visiting here with his family. They walked on the set yesterday afternoon, and Tony Fletcher was in the middle of a scene. He turned to them and insulted them."

"What did he say?"

"He told them to get off his island."

"Jesus Christ!"

"That's who he thinks he is. Heller's so mad he wants to cancel the series."

"Get over to Heller and apologize. Do it right now. Tell him Tony Fletcher's having a nervous breakdown. Send Mrs. Heller flowers, take them to dinner. I'll talk to Tony Fletcher myself."

The conversation lasted thirty minutes. It began with Sam saying, "Hear this, you stupid cocksucker..." and ended with, "I love you, too, baby. I'll fly over there to see you as soon as I can get away. And for God's sake, Tony, don't lay Mrs. Heller!"

The next problem was Bert Firestone, the boy-genius director who was breaking Pan-Pacific Studios. Firestone's picture, There's Always Tomorrow, had been shooting for a hundred and ten days, and was more than a million dollars over budget. Now Bert Firestone had shut the production down, which meant that, besides the stars, there were a hundred and fifty extras sitting around on their asses doing nothing. Bert Firestone. A thirty-year-old whiz kid who came from directing prize-winning television shows at a Chicago station to directing movies in Hollywood. Firestone's first three motion pictures had been mild successes, but his fourth one had been a box-office smash. On the basis of that money-maker, he had become a hot property. Sam remembered his first meeting with him. Firestone looked a not-yet-ready-to-shave fifteen. He was a pale, shy man with black horn-rimmed glasses that concealed tiny, myopic pink eyes. Sam had felt sorry for the kid. Firestone had not known anyone in Hollywood, so Sam had gone out of his way to have him to dinner and to see that he was invited to parties. When they had first discussed There's Always Tomorrow, Firestone was very respectful. He told Sam that he was eager to learn. He hung on every word that Sam said. He could not have agreed more with Sam. If he were signed for this picture, he told Sam, he would certainly lean heavily on Mr. Winters's expertise.

That was before Firestone signed the contract. After he signed it, he made Adolf Hitler look like Albert Schweitzer. The little apple-cheeked kid turned into a killer overnight. He cut off all communication. He completely ignored Sam's casting suggestions, insisted on totally rewriting a fine script that Sam had approved, and he changed most of the shooting locales that had already been agreed upon. Sam had wanted to throw him off the picture, but the New York office had told Sam to be patient. Rudolph Hergershorn, the president of the company, was hypnotized by the enormous grosses on Firestone's last movie. So Sam had been forced to sit tight and do nothing. It seemed to him that Firestone's arrogance grew day by day. He would sit quietly through a production meeting, and when all the experienced department heads had finished speaking, Firestone would begin chopping down everyone. Sam gritted his teeth and bore it. In no time at all, Firestone acquired the nickname of Emperor, and when his coworkers were not calling him that, they referred to him as Kid Prick from Chicago. Somebody said about him, "He's a hermaphrodite. He could probably fuck himself and give birth to a two-headed monster."

Now, in the middle of shooting, Firestone had closed down the company.

Sam went over to see Devlin Kelly, the head of the art department. "Give it to me fast," Sam said.

"Right. Kid Prick ordered - "

"Cut that out. It's Mr. Firestone."

"Sorry. Mr. Firestone asked me to build a castle set for him. He drew the sketches himself. You okayed them."

"They were good. What happened?"

"What happened was that we built him exactly what the little - what he wanted, and when he took a look at it yesterday, he decided he didn't want it anymore. A half-million bucks down the - "

"I'll talk to him," Sam said.

Bert Firestone was outside, in back of Stage Twenty-Three, playing basketball with the crew. They had rigged up a court and had painted in boundary lines and put up two baskets.

Sam stood there, watching a moment. The game was costing the studio two thousand dollars an hour. "Bert!"

Firestone turned, saw Sam, smiled and waved. The ball came to him, he dribbled it, feinted, and sank a basket. Then he strolled over to Sam. "How are things?" As though nothing were wrong.

As Sam looked at the boyish, smiling young face, it occurred to him that Bert Firestone was a psycho. Talented, maybe even a genius, but a certifiable lunatic. And five million dollars of the company's money was in his hands.

"I hear there's a problem with the new set," Sam said. "Let's straighten it out."

Bert Firestone smiled lazily and said, "There's nothing to straighten out, Sam. The set won't work."

Sam exploded. "What the hell are you talking about? We gave you exactly what you ordered. You did the sketches yourself. Now you tell me what's wrong with it!"

Firestone looked at him and blinked. "Why, there's nothing wrong with it. It's just that I've changed my mind. I don't want a castle. I've decided that's not the right ambience. Do you know what I mean? This is Ellen and Mike's farewell scene. I'd like to have Ellen come to visit Mike on the deck of his ship as he's getting ready to sail."

Sam stared at him. "We don't have a ship set, Bert."

Bert Firestone stretched his arms and smiled lazily and said, "Build one for me, Sam."

"Sure, I'm pissed off, too," Rudolph Hergershorn said, over the long-distance line, "but you can't replace him, Sam. We're in too deep now. We have no stars in the picture. Bert Firestone's our star."

"Do you know how far over the budget he's - "

"I know. And like Goldwyn said, 'I'll never use the son of a bitch again, until I need him.' We need him to finish this picture."

"It's a mistake," Sam argued. "He shouldn't be allowed to get away with this."

"Sam - do you like the stuff Firestone has shot so far?"

Sam had to be honest. "It's great."

"Build him his ship."

The set was ready in ten days, and Bert Firestone put the There's Always Tomorrow company back into production. It turned out to be the top grosser of the year.

The next problem was Tessie Brand.

Tessie was the hottest singer in show business. It had been a coup when Sam Winters had managed to sign her to a three-picture deal at Pan-Pacific Studios. While the other studios were negotiating with Tessie's agents, Sam had quietly flown to New York, seen Tessie's show and taken her out to supper afterward. The supper had lasted until seven o'clock the following morning.

Tessie Brand was one of the ugliest girls Sam had ever seen, and probably the most talented. It was the talent that won out. The daughter of a Brooklyn tailor, Tessie had never had a singing lesson in her life. But when she walked onto a stage and began belting out a song in a voice that rocked the rafters, audiences went wild. Tessie had been an understudy in a flop Broadway musical that had lasted only six weeks. On closing night, the ingenue made the mistake of phoning in sick and staying home. Tessie Brand made her debut that evening, singing her heart out to the sprinkling of people in the audience. Among them happened to be Paul Varrick, a Broadway producer. He starred Tessie in his next musical. She turned the show, which was fair, into a smash. The critics ran out of superlatives trying to describe the incredible, ugly Tessie and her amazing voice. She recorded her first single record. Overnight it became number one. She did an album, and it sold two million copies in the first month. She was Queen Midas, for everything she touched turned to gold. Broadway producers and record companies were making their fortunes with Tessie Brand, and Hollywood wanted in on the action. Their enthusiasm dimmed when they got a look at Tessie's face, but her box-office figures gave her an irresistible beauty.

After spending five minutes with her, Sam knew how he was going to handle her.

"What makes me nervous," Tessie confessed to Sam the first night they met, "is how I'm gonna look on that great big screen. I'm ugly enough life-sized, right? All the studios tell me they can make me look beautiful, but I think that's a load of horseshit."

"It is a load of horseshit," Sam said. Tessie looked at him in surprise. "Don't let anyone try to change you, Tessie. They'll ruin you."

"Yeah?"

"When MGM signed Danny Thomas, Louie Mayer wanted him to get a nose job. Instead, Danny quit the studio. He knew that what he had to sell was himself. That's what you have to sell - Tessie Brand, not some plastic stranger up there."

"You're the first one who's leveled with me," Tessie said. "You're a real Mensch. You married?"

"No," Sam said.

"Do you fool around?"

Sam laughed. "Never with singers - I have no ear."

"You wouldn't need an ear." Tessie smiled. "I like you."

"Do you like me well enough to make some movies with me?"

She looked at him and said, "Yeah."

"Wonderful. I'll work out the deal with your agent."

She stroked Sam's hand and said, "Are you sure you don't fool around?"

Tessie Brand's first two pictures went through the box-office roof. She received an Academy nomination for the first one and was awarded the golden Oscar for the second. Audiences all over the world lined up at motion-picture theaters to see Tessie and to hear that incredible voice. She had everything. She was funny, she could sing and she could act. Her ugliness turned out to be an asset, because audiences identified with it. Tessie Brand became a surrogate for all the unattractive, the unloved, the unwanted.

Tessie married the leading man in her first picture, divorced him after the retakes and married the leading man in her next picture. Sam had heard rumors that this marriage too was sinking, but Hollywood was a hotbed of gossip. He paid no attention, for he felt that it was none of his business.

As it turned out, he was mistaken.

Sam was talking on the phone to Barry Herman, Tessie's agent. "What's the problem, Barry?"

"Tessie's new picture. She's not happy, Sam."

Sam felt his temper rising. "Hold it! Tessie's approved the producer, the director and the shooting script. We've got the sets built and we're ready to roll. There's no way she can walk away now. I'll - "

"She doesn't want to walk away."

Sam was taken aback. "What the hell does she want?"

"She wants a new producer on the picture."

Sam yelled into the phone. "She what?"

"Ralph Dastin doesn't understand her."

"Dastin's one of the best producers in the business. She's lucky to have him."

"I couldn't agree with you more, Sam. But the chemistry's wrong. She won't make the picture unless he's out."

"She's got a contract, Barry."

"I know that, sweetheart. And, believe me, Tessie has every intention of honoring it. As long as she's physically able. It's just that she gets nervous when she's unhappy and she can't seem to remember her lines."

"I'll call you back," Sam said savagely. He slammed down the phone.

The goddamned bitch! There was no reason to fire Dastin from the picture. He had probably refused to go to bed with her, or something equally ridiculous. He said to Lucille, "Ask Ralph Dastin to come up here."

Ralph Dastin was an amiable man in his fifties. He had started as a writer and had eventually become a producer. His movies had taste and charm.

"Ralph," Sam began, "I don't know how to - "

Dastin held up his hand. "You don't have to say it, Sam. I was on my way up here to tell you I'm quitting."

"What the hell's going on?" Sam demanded.

Dastin shrugged. "Our star's got an itch. She wants someone else to scratch it."

"You mean she has your replacement already picked out?"

"Jesus, where have you been - on Mars? Don't you read the gossip columns?"

"Not if I can help it. Who is he?"

"It's not a he."

Sam sat down, slowly. "What?"

"It's the costume designer on Tessie's picture. Her name is Barbara Carter - like the little liver pills."

"Are you sure about this?" Sam asked.

"You're the only one in the entire Western Hemisphere who doesn't know it."

Sam shook his head. "I always thought Tessie was straight."

"Sam, life's a cafeteria. Tessie's a hungry girl."

"Well, I'm not about to put a goddamned female costume designer in charge of a four-million-dollar picture."

Dastin grinned. "You just said the wrong thing."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that part of Tessie's pitch is that women aren't given a fair chance in this business. Your little star has become very feminist-minded."

"I won't do it," Sam said.

"Suit yourself. But I'll give you some free advice. It's the only way you're ever going to get this picture made."

Sam telephoned Barry Herman. "Tell Tessie that Ralph Dastin walked off the picture," Sam said.

"She'll be pleased to hear that."

Sam gritted his teeth, then asked, "Did she have anyone else in mind to produce the picture?"

"As a matter of fact, she did," Herman said smoothly. "Tessie has discovered a very talented young girl who she feels is ready for a challenge like this. Under the guidance of someone as brilliant as you, Sam - "

"Cut out the commercial," Sam said. "Is that the bottom line?"

"I'm afraid it is, Sam. I'm sorry."

Barbara Carter had a pretty face and a good figure and, as far as Sam could tell, was completely feminine. He watched her as she took a seat on the leather couch in his office and daintily crossed her long, shapely legs. When she spoke, her voice sounded a trifle husky, but that may have been because Sam was looking for some kind of sign. She studied him with soft gray eyes and said, "I seem to be in a terrible spot, Mr. Winters. I had no intention of putting anyone out of work. And yet" - she raised her hands helplessly - "Miss Brand says she simply won't make the picture unless I produce it. What do you think I should do?"

For an instant, Sam was tempted to tell her. Instead, he said, "Have you had any experience with show business - besides being a costume designer?"

"I've ushered, and I've seen lots of movies."

Terrific! "What makes Miss Brand think you can produce a motion picture?"

It was as though Sam had touched a hidden spring. Barbara Carter was suddenly full of animation. "Tessie and I have talked a lot about this picture." No more "Miss Brand," Sam noticed. "I feel there are a lot of things wrong with the script, and when I pointed them out to her, she agreed with me."

"Do you think you know more about writing a script than an Academy Award-winning writer who's done half a dozen successful pictures and Broadway plays?"

"Oh, no, Mr. Winters! I just think I know more about women." The gray eyes were harder now, the tone a little tougher. "Don't you think it's ridiculous for men to always be writing women's parts? Only we really know how we feel. Doesn't that make sense to you?"

Sam was tired of the game. He knew he was going to hire her, and he hated himself for it, but he was running a studio, and his job was to see that pictures got made. If Tessie Brand wanted her pet squirrel to produce this picture, Sam would start ordering nuts. A Tessie Brand picture could easily mean a profit of from twenty to thirty million dollars. Besides, Barbara Carter couldn't do anything to really hurt the picture. Not now. It was too close to shooting for any major changes to be made.

"You've convinced me," Sam said, with irony. "You've got the job. Congratulations."

The following morning, the Hollywood Reporter and Variety announced on their front pages that Barbara Carter was producing the new Tessie Brand movie. As Sam started to throw the papers in his wastebasket, a small item at the bottom of the page caught his eye: "TOBY TEMPLE SIGNED FOR LOUNGE AT TAHOE HOTEL."

Toby Temple. Sam remembered the eager young comic in uniform, and the memory brought a smile to Sam's face. Sam made a mental note to see his act if Temple ever played in town.

He wondered why Toby Temple had never gotten in touch with him.