Thinks we should use as much of Margaret Mitchell’s dialogue as possible, but cut a lot of the redundant material. Selznick is resisting, naturally.” Andy sighed. “I don’t know what Scott’s doing out here,” he said. “He’s got real talent, if he’d control his drinking. He should be writing novels, far from Hollywood. No reason for him to sell out.”
The next day’s shoot went well, even though Julie heard that Scarlett’s hastily constructed white dress had to be held in place with clothespins at first and Miss Edith Head’s seamstresses would sew it up in back between takes. Julie had hoped to watch, but at Carole’s request, she worked that day from Carole’s Bel-Air home on Cloud Road. Here she would have a respectable-sized office to handle publicity and secretarial work when Carole didn’t need her on the Selznicklot. There was plenty to do, but Julie feared life would be far less exciting.
That was before a studio messenger showed up at the door at lunchtime with a package for Gable from David Selznick.
Julie accepted the package and held it out to Gable as he came in through the back door, his trousers muddied from working in the garden he and Carole were trying to nourish.
“What the hell is this?” he said, puzzled, when she handed him the package. “Kind of heavy.” Absently, he tossed a trowel he’d been carrying onto a sleekly immaculate beige sofa. Julie picked it up quickly as he took the package into the dining room.
Silence at first. Then a barrage of curses, which brought Carole hurrying to his side.
“Selznick is crazy,” he sputtered, showing Carole the contents of the package. “Ninety-two pages of instructions on how he wants me to play Rhett Butler. What kind of maniacal character
is
he?”
He paced, looking worn. “He doesn’t trust me to play this stupid part,” he said.
“He’s not the director—” began Carole.
“Cukor? He’s worse,” Gable snapped. He began clawing through his pockets, pulled out a wrinkled cigarette pack, and rescued the last one. He crushed the empty pack into a ball and threw it at an ashtray. He missed.
Carole handed him a lighter, the silver one he had given her as a birthday gift.
“He’ll lavish attention on Vivien—I can see that already,” he said, inhaling deeply. “Look, it’s obvious. The man’s a fag, and I don’t like fags, and I’m never going to like him. Selznick knows that.”
He said the word so flatly. Of course, plenty of people felt the same way, but Julie couldn’t help remembering this was the same man who spoke up for the Negro extras yesterday.
“You’re not going to pull out of the movie,” Carole said quietly. “You haven’t even done your first scene yet.”
“Presenting Scarlett with a fancy Paris hat,” he scoffed. “There are probably ten pages in this crap devoted to how David wants itdone.” Suddenly he seemed more weary than angry. “This isn’t my type of part, Ma,” he said.
“Okay, tell me the worst. Wait—let me guess. Leaning forward and finding your costume is cut too tight in the crotch?” she teased.
He smiled reluctantly. An almost sweet smile out of that handsome, clouded face. “Okay, Ma. But I’m still complaining.”
“Dinner on Saturday next week? Somewhere special.”
Andy was calling on the rooming-house phone. It was after midnight, and Julie had been summoned from bed in her pajamas by a somewhat cross and sleepy fellow resident. Yet, even at this late hour, his voice lifted her spirits.
“Why are you calling so late?” she asked. “Anything wrong?”
“Just rolled home after my evening with Scott,” he said. His voice was relaxed.
“I hear today’s shoot went well.”
“Yep, Edith Head can do anything. She whipped up a white gown in about three hours, and Selznick was placated. Even though he didn’t get as big an audience for the reshoot. What happened up in Bel-Air?”
“Gable was furious when he got Selznick’s package of
The next day’s shoot went well, even though Julie heard that Scarlett’s hastily constructed white dress had to be held in place with clothespins at first and Miss Edith Head’s seamstresses would sew it up in back between takes. Julie had hoped to watch, but at Carole’s request, she worked that day from Carole’s Bel-Air home on Cloud Road. Here she would have a respectable-sized office to handle publicity and secretarial work when Carole didn’t need her on the Selznicklot. There was plenty to do, but Julie feared life would be far less exciting.
That was before a studio messenger showed up at the door at lunchtime with a package for Gable from David Selznick.
Julie accepted the package and held it out to Gable as he came in through the back door, his trousers muddied from working in the garden he and Carole were trying to nourish.
“What the hell is this?” he said, puzzled, when she handed him the package. “Kind of heavy.” Absently, he tossed a trowel he’d been carrying onto a sleekly immaculate beige sofa. Julie picked it up quickly as he took the package into the dining room.
Silence at first. Then a barrage of curses, which brought Carole hurrying to his side.
“Selznick is crazy,” he sputtered, showing Carole the contents of the package. “Ninety-two pages of instructions on how he wants me to play Rhett Butler. What kind of maniacal character
is
he?”
He paced, looking worn. “He doesn’t trust me to play this stupid part,” he said.
“He’s not the director—” began Carole.
“Cukor? He’s worse,” Gable snapped. He began clawing through his pockets, pulled out a wrinkled cigarette pack, and rescued the last one. He crushed the empty pack into a ball and threw it at an ashtray. He missed.
Carole handed him a lighter, the silver one he had given her as a birthday gift.
“He’ll lavish attention on Vivien—I can see that already,” he said, inhaling deeply. “Look, it’s obvious. The man’s a fag, and I don’t like fags, and I’m never going to like him. Selznick knows that.”
He said the word so flatly. Of course, plenty of people felt the same way, but Julie couldn’t help remembering this was the same man who spoke up for the Negro extras yesterday.
“You’re not going to pull out of the movie,” Carole said quietly. “You haven’t even done your first scene yet.”
“Presenting Scarlett with a fancy Paris hat,” he scoffed. “There are probably ten pages in this crap devoted to how David wants itdone.” Suddenly he seemed more weary than angry. “This isn’t my type of part, Ma,” he said.
“Okay, tell me the worst. Wait—let me guess. Leaning forward and finding your costume is cut too tight in the crotch?” she teased.
He smiled reluctantly. An almost sweet smile out of that handsome, clouded face. “Okay, Ma. But I’m still complaining.”
“Dinner on Saturday next week? Somewhere special.”
Andy was calling on the rooming-house phone. It was after midnight, and Julie had been summoned from bed in her pajamas by a somewhat cross and sleepy fellow resident. Yet, even at this late hour, his voice lifted her spirits.
“Why are you calling so late?” she asked. “Anything wrong?”
“Just rolled home after my evening with Scott,” he said. His voice was relaxed.
“I hear today’s shoot went well.”
“Yep, Edith Head can do anything. She whipped up a white gown in about three hours, and Selznick was placated. Even though he didn’t get as big an audience for the reshoot. What happened up in Bel-Air?”
“Gable was furious when he got Selznick’s package of
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