Hollywoodland: Chapter 1

The gentle swaying of the music from the soundtrack to the last silent film faded to give way to the rhythmic whirring from the film projector. Nine Tuxes sat puffing on their cheap cigars, waiting for the lead Suit to speak. Mr. Goldwyn sat staring at the blank silver screen. He gave himself a few seconds of time to think over what he just saw. He already knew what he thought; the film was a bust. It was never going to compete with any of the new "talkies" that were being shot at Paramount and Warner Brothers. He was only taking a few puffs more of the expensive cigar, give the boys behind him more time to squirm about what the Suit's verdict would be. Those boys worked, but did they truly work hard enough, Mr. Goldwyn thought. He knew that the newly installed "Hay's Code" would shoot this movie down, so why was he still giving these "rent-a-tuxes" any time of day?

"God, I need to get out of this business," Charles Goldwyn muttered to himself.

He stood up, his fifty-year old body reacting to gravity the way he didn't want it to. He missed his youthful thirty-year old body. He missed all the chorus girls he had been with. All the pretty young things that were there and gone as quick as he was done with them. He missed them, but what he missed most of all was the thrill, the excitement, the climbing up of the ladder of Loew's Incorporated insides. He remembered long nights of arguing with bony script writers, glitzy directors, and seclusive editors in dark smokey editing rooms. Long nights of appeasing actors and actresses on sets, in trailers, pampering their twisted child-like egos. He remembered when he wormed and worked his way past other competing producers and directors to take over the company. He remembered when he changed the name of Loew's Incorporated to MGM.

Film and Hollywoodland was different then - silent films with lavish sets, beautiful women, and the big names on the marquees. It was spectacular, so gilded and beautiful. It all came down though with the scandal around Fatty Arbuckle. Fatty Arbuckle and that actress....what was her name again? Amanda or Louise something-or-other. It was all over the papers and news-reels. Fatty was accused of raping and killing the young starlet, snuffing out her shining flame before either old age, a wild lifestyle, or suicide snuffed it out for her. Fatty was never found guilty, but his career was over. Damn Arbuckle, his career was tarnished, and it managed to further splash tar on the gilded image of Hollywoodland, a sick punchline to his comedic career.

"Umm...Mr. Goldwyn...hello? What did you think of the film? Isn't Ms. Desmond just great?", one of the Tuxes was talking, trying to get Charles Goldwyn's attention. Two of the other Tuxes quietly ashed their cigars and started to get up to go.

"Oh, what?" Charles Goldwyn turned around. "Sorry, I was thinking about my wife. Damn near forgot our anniversary today. Would've been the third year in a row that this has happened."

Diane, Charles' secretary shook her head. He forgot the anniversary, again, this time by about two weeks. Mrs. Goldwyn was going to raise hell. She threatened divorce before, she might actually go ahead with it this time.

Charles Goldwyn kept going, "Did I like the picture? I thought it was good but its missing something...is there any way that it could be reshot to be a musical? A musical with some big dance numbers. Oh and beautiful girls. Those kinds of pictures have been selling like hotcakes.

Charles began to pace, smoking his Italian cigar. He could see that the one who had spoken to him was now feverishly writing down everything that he was saying. All of the Tuxes were writing now. Goldwyn knew that where the Tuxes lacked in total personal imagination, they more than made up for it in their "yes-man" attitude.

Mr. Goldwyn turned to the closest of the Tuxes, giving the young lad of around twenty his full attention. He quickly looked him over. Charles thought, "not too bad looking, but hell, he'll never be as good looking as I am."

"Can Ms. Desmond...can she sing?" Mr. Goldwyn asked the Tux in front of him, quickly looking about the room to the other Tuxes. "Well, out with it, haven't got all day. It's Friday, and I'm supposed to take my gal, Mrs. Goldwyn out for dinner."

The secretary cringed again, thinking of new forms of hell that Mrs. Goldwyn could imagine and create for Mr. Goldwyn.

"Come on boy, out with it. Speak!" Goldwyn barked at the young Tux.

The young Tux looked to the others for help. Here was THE Mr. Goldwyn, and he, the young Tux, suddenly wanted to be swallowed up by a hole, as well as to kiss Charles Goldwyn's feet at the same time.

Charles turned to another Tux, barking the same question. This time the Tux had an answer, but Charles didn't like it. Just as Charles feared; Ms. Desmond, a girl that the studio turned from a country bumpkin to a beautiful belle that lit up every marquee and screen credit, couldn't sing. Her voice, as the Tux so bluntly put it, needed years of work which meant many more years of money going to another aging actor who probably won't be remembered ten years down the road. Or, the same money and time could go to a new star.

Mr. Goldwyn realized that he needed a new star, this time the star had to have a voice to match their beauty. Charles just couldn't make up his mind if the new star was going to be a guy or a gal.