based on Frank Norris’s classic novel
McTeague
, a tale of mortal doom. Approximate screening time nine hours, so refreshments would be provided. Formal dress optional. (Good; the closest thing I had to evening wear was a black rebozo.) Location: suite B of the Cahuenga Pass Hilton. (Yuck yuck.) My host: Einar.
I pulled on my boots and wandered out to the fire, where Porfirio was frying breakfast. “Did you get one of these?” I held the card out to him. “What’s it all about?”
“Didn’t you hear him chortling when the afternoon stage left yesterday?” Porfirio said, handing me a mug of coffee, which I accepted gratefully. “He got a big box he’d ordered from Central HQ. He was fussing around in his room all last night. He’s in there now, as a matter of fact. This should be some party.”
“I guess.” I looked at the card doubtfully. “Will we all fit in his room? I’m not much for parties, really.”
“It’s not a party party, it’s a film screening. He’s working like a dog to create a sense of occasion. I’m going, and you should too.” Porfirio looked at me sternly. “What else have you got to do tonight? Sit in your room and look at plant DNA? This will be good for you.”
Actually I enjoyed sitting in my room in front of a cozily glowing credenza, but I didn’t want to disappoint Einar. Accordingly, at 2000 hours that evening I wrapped my black shawl around me and ventured into the adobe. I could see lamplight coming from Einar’s room; and was that music? It sounded like a selection of famous film themes by Hollywood composers, tinnily played on a battery-powered portable, and that in fact was what it was. But I barely noticed the music once I crossed the threshold of Einar’s room.
He
had
worked to create a sense of occasion. It was a small square room with bare adobe walls and rough furniture of peeled logsand cowhide; but he had borrowed Imarte’s red velveteen bedspread and tacked it up in hanging swags against one wall, and a dusty oriental carpet had been rolled out on the floor, and a fairly clean sheet had been tacked up on another wall. That had to have come from Imarte’s bed, too. In fact, there was a lot of her finery draped around to give the room a film palace look. She was being an awfully good sport about this, wasn’t she? And there she stood in a ballgown of Arrest Me Red, holding forth sententiously to Oscar:
“. . . outrageous what they did to von Stroheim, but it’s a classic case of the fate of great literature in Hollywood. Of course it was bound to happen, given the incredible social significance of Norris’s work. Audiences simply weren’t ready for the grim realism, the pitiless examination of hopelessness among the uneducated working classes, the dwindling of the American Dream to despair, the ugly realities of passion.”
“You don’t say?” Oscar raised a graniteware coffee mug to his lips and took a cautious sip of the contents. He looked startled. “Good Lord, Einar, is this gin we’re drinking?”
“Sure is,” Einar said, welcoming me with a bow and handing me my libation for the evening. He was resplendent in a black tailcoat, stiff collar, and flowing foulard tie. He’d greased and combed his hair back, and so had Porfirio, also dressed to the nines. They looked like a couple of cast members from a melodrama. “It’s a martini, complete with olive. Don’t worry, the gin hasn’t been anywhere near a bathtub. Mendoza, you look lovely this evening; pray be seated. A space has been reserved for you in the balcony.” He gestured grandly at his cowhide bed, which had been dressed up with needlepoint cushions. “You too, Imarte; and as highest-ranking cyborg here, Porfirio, you have the seat of honor between the ladies, okay? The rest of us gentlemen will be seated in the loge. Well, we’re only waiting for J. B. to make his fashionably late entrance—”
“Here I am. Sorry,” murmured Juan Bautista from the doorway.
McTeague
, a tale of mortal doom. Approximate screening time nine hours, so refreshments would be provided. Formal dress optional. (Good; the closest thing I had to evening wear was a black rebozo.) Location: suite B of the Cahuenga Pass Hilton. (Yuck yuck.) My host: Einar.
I pulled on my boots and wandered out to the fire, where Porfirio was frying breakfast. “Did you get one of these?” I held the card out to him. “What’s it all about?”
“Didn’t you hear him chortling when the afternoon stage left yesterday?” Porfirio said, handing me a mug of coffee, which I accepted gratefully. “He got a big box he’d ordered from Central HQ. He was fussing around in his room all last night. He’s in there now, as a matter of fact. This should be some party.”
“I guess.” I looked at the card doubtfully. “Will we all fit in his room? I’m not much for parties, really.”
“It’s not a party party, it’s a film screening. He’s working like a dog to create a sense of occasion. I’m going, and you should too.” Porfirio looked at me sternly. “What else have you got to do tonight? Sit in your room and look at plant DNA? This will be good for you.”
Actually I enjoyed sitting in my room in front of a cozily glowing credenza, but I didn’t want to disappoint Einar. Accordingly, at 2000 hours that evening I wrapped my black shawl around me and ventured into the adobe. I could see lamplight coming from Einar’s room; and was that music? It sounded like a selection of famous film themes by Hollywood composers, tinnily played on a battery-powered portable, and that in fact was what it was. But I barely noticed the music once I crossed the threshold of Einar’s room.
He
had
worked to create a sense of occasion. It was a small square room with bare adobe walls and rough furniture of peeled logsand cowhide; but he had borrowed Imarte’s red velveteen bedspread and tacked it up in hanging swags against one wall, and a dusty oriental carpet had been rolled out on the floor, and a fairly clean sheet had been tacked up on another wall. That had to have come from Imarte’s bed, too. In fact, there was a lot of her finery draped around to give the room a film palace look. She was being an awfully good sport about this, wasn’t she? And there she stood in a ballgown of Arrest Me Red, holding forth sententiously to Oscar:
“. . . outrageous what they did to von Stroheim, but it’s a classic case of the fate of great literature in Hollywood. Of course it was bound to happen, given the incredible social significance of Norris’s work. Audiences simply weren’t ready for the grim realism, the pitiless examination of hopelessness among the uneducated working classes, the dwindling of the American Dream to despair, the ugly realities of passion.”
“You don’t say?” Oscar raised a graniteware coffee mug to his lips and took a cautious sip of the contents. He looked startled. “Good Lord, Einar, is this gin we’re drinking?”
“Sure is,” Einar said, welcoming me with a bow and handing me my libation for the evening. He was resplendent in a black tailcoat, stiff collar, and flowing foulard tie. He’d greased and combed his hair back, and so had Porfirio, also dressed to the nines. They looked like a couple of cast members from a melodrama. “It’s a martini, complete with olive. Don’t worry, the gin hasn’t been anywhere near a bathtub. Mendoza, you look lovely this evening; pray be seated. A space has been reserved for you in the balcony.” He gestured grandly at his cowhide bed, which had been dressed up with needlepoint cushions. “You too, Imarte; and as highest-ranking cyborg here, Porfirio, you have the seat of honor between the ladies, okay? The rest of us gentlemen will be seated in the loge. Well, we’re only waiting for J. B. to make his fashionably late entrance—”
“Here I am. Sorry,” murmured Juan Bautista from the doorway.
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