don’t know what you want. But I don’t intend to become a spy or anything like that, for the United States or anyone else. I’m a movie producer, and that’s all.”
“Think about it,” Falconi said quietly. “I’ll call you again tonight.”
“Don’t bother.” Win got up carefully from the table and walked away. God, wait till he told Martha about this guy!
But on the way to the theatre he remembered what Falconi had said about Betty, and that memory depressed him….
The reporters and columnists were waiting, as they always were at these affairs. While the photographers chased up and down the beaches in search of some well-equipped starlet who might pose for a picture while losing her bathing suit or being rescued from the surf, Win Chambers sat at bay in a smoky lounge of the theatre, answering a variety of questions from reporters who sometimes only barely understood the workings of the English language.
“Would you classify yourself as a runaway producer, Mr. Chambers?”
“I left Hollywood a good many years before this exodus began, and since I don’t any longer consider myself an American producer making films abroad for the American market, I could hardly be classed with the runaways. In my own mind, I’d be running away if I returned to the States now.”
“Mr. Chambers, your first big success in France was last year’s Intrepide, which was filmed in the French language. Now you have filmed Wild Yearling in American. Why?”
“First off, my first big success in France was an American picture, Swamp King, and not Intrepide. But to answer your question, Wild Yearling is in English—not American—and I see nothing wrong with this. Perhaps these last five years I’ve come to think more like an Englishman than either an American or a Frenchman. The picture was partly financed with British money, and I think the story it tells can better be told originally in the English tongue.”
“But it is the French entry.”
“A fact that makes me very proud. There will be a one world of films within our lifetime, and with it perhaps a one world of diplomats.”
There was a stir towards the back of the lounge as some others entered. Win recognized the Russian actress, Tonia Dudorov, and he suddenly remembered the strange meeting with Falconi. Tonia was a lovely girl who seemed more French than Russian, and who carried herself with an unmistakable air of superiority. In a nation only beginning to match the strides of the rest of the world in the field of the motion picture, Tonia Dudorov was already supreme.
He stood up to greet her and someone snapped a picture. “Hello, Tonia. Welcome to Feru.”
“Win, Win darling! It has been so long.”
“Last year at Venice.” He’d gotten mildly drunk with her at one of the round of parties, and he knew then as now that he could have slept with her almost at will.
“So long! Look, I have a new addition since last we met.” She fingered the tiny red star pinned to her dress. It was about the size of a button, and it seemed to Win’s eyes to be identical with the one Falconi had shown him.
“The Lenin Award. I heard you’d won it.”
“In my country, a very great honor.”
“I’m very happy for you,” Win said, and then because the newsmen pressed on all sides of them they parted. He saw her again when they went out of the screening of the first picture, but she was sitting on the other side of the auditorium in the company of the rest of the Russian party. He gave himself over entirely to the enjoyment of the movie, an Italian entry dealing with the always sensitive subject of the army’s cowardice during World War I. It was a well-made, well-acted job, and he felt the power of it gripping the judges.
When the lights went up at the end, he saw Baine and a group of other Americans heading towards his seat. He switched on the automatic smile and rose to greet them. Once a year he could act like an American. More than that would have been an
“Think about it,” Falconi said quietly. “I’ll call you again tonight.”
“Don’t bother.” Win got up carefully from the table and walked away. God, wait till he told Martha about this guy!
But on the way to the theatre he remembered what Falconi had said about Betty, and that memory depressed him….
The reporters and columnists were waiting, as they always were at these affairs. While the photographers chased up and down the beaches in search of some well-equipped starlet who might pose for a picture while losing her bathing suit or being rescued from the surf, Win Chambers sat at bay in a smoky lounge of the theatre, answering a variety of questions from reporters who sometimes only barely understood the workings of the English language.
“Would you classify yourself as a runaway producer, Mr. Chambers?”
“I left Hollywood a good many years before this exodus began, and since I don’t any longer consider myself an American producer making films abroad for the American market, I could hardly be classed with the runaways. In my own mind, I’d be running away if I returned to the States now.”
“Mr. Chambers, your first big success in France was last year’s Intrepide, which was filmed in the French language. Now you have filmed Wild Yearling in American. Why?”
“First off, my first big success in France was an American picture, Swamp King, and not Intrepide. But to answer your question, Wild Yearling is in English—not American—and I see nothing wrong with this. Perhaps these last five years I’ve come to think more like an Englishman than either an American or a Frenchman. The picture was partly financed with British money, and I think the story it tells can better be told originally in the English tongue.”
“But it is the French entry.”
“A fact that makes me very proud. There will be a one world of films within our lifetime, and with it perhaps a one world of diplomats.”
There was a stir towards the back of the lounge as some others entered. Win recognized the Russian actress, Tonia Dudorov, and he suddenly remembered the strange meeting with Falconi. Tonia was a lovely girl who seemed more French than Russian, and who carried herself with an unmistakable air of superiority. In a nation only beginning to match the strides of the rest of the world in the field of the motion picture, Tonia Dudorov was already supreme.
He stood up to greet her and someone snapped a picture. “Hello, Tonia. Welcome to Feru.”
“Win, Win darling! It has been so long.”
“Last year at Venice.” He’d gotten mildly drunk with her at one of the round of parties, and he knew then as now that he could have slept with her almost at will.
“So long! Look, I have a new addition since last we met.” She fingered the tiny red star pinned to her dress. It was about the size of a button, and it seemed to Win’s eyes to be identical with the one Falconi had shown him.
“The Lenin Award. I heard you’d won it.”
“In my country, a very great honor.”
“I’m very happy for you,” Win said, and then because the newsmen pressed on all sides of them they parted. He saw her again when they went out of the screening of the first picture, but she was sitting on the other side of the auditorium in the company of the rest of the Russian party. He gave himself over entirely to the enjoyment of the movie, an Italian entry dealing with the always sensitive subject of the army’s cowardice during World War I. It was a well-made, well-acted job, and he felt the power of it gripping the judges.
When the lights went up at the end, he saw Baine and a group of other Americans heading towards his seat. He switched on the automatic smile and rose to greet them. Once a year he could act like an American. More than that would have been an
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