Read Online Ball of Fire by Stefan Kanfer - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Stefan Kanfer
Tags: Fiction
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previous film,
The Kid from Spain,
had been a smash, and
Roman Scandals
was expected to exceed its grosses. George S. Kaufman and Robert E. Sherwood, each of whom would become a Pulitzer Prize winner in a few years, had been assigned to do the scenario. Dissatisfied with their dialogue, Goldwyn hired two of the Marx Brothers’ most inventive writers, Arthur Sheekman and Nat Perrin, to add gags and visual business. The cinematographer was Gregg Toland, who would go on to make
Citizen Kane.
Busby Berkeley, master choreographer of the 1930s, supervised the dances. The songs were written by Harry Warren and Al Dubin, later known for their score for
42nd
Street.
The cast included the popular singer Ruth Etting and character actors Edward Arnold and Alan Mowbray.
If the plot was less than original, at least it borrowed from prime sources: Mark Twain’s
A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court
and George Bernard Shaw’s
Androcles and the Lion.
Cantor, as a whimsical delivery boy named Eddie in West Rome, Oklahoma, falls asleep on the job. In a dream he is projected back to ancient Rome, where he serves as official food taster to the wicked emperor Valerius (Arnold). Before Cantor awakens, there are songs, anachronistic gags (for example, a slavemaster is disabled by fits of mirth when he inhales lava gas), an attempt to overthrow Valerius followed by a prolonged chase scene, a love story, and, predictably, many close-ups of scantily clad slave girls locked in chains as they await the emperor’s pleasure.
Lucille played one of the slaves, and she learned the hard way that filmmaking was neither as amusing nor as easy as it looked from the outside. Back in the 1930s the actor’s workday knew no limits. Sometimes shooting went on until 3 a.m. Even more demanding than the oppressive schedule, in Lucille’s view, was the studio’s decree that all the girls must resemble Harlow, the blonde luminary whose eyebrows were represented by two carefully penciled-in crescents. Accordingly, Lucy shaved off her eyebrows—and found to her distress that they never quite grew back. Every morning from that day to the end of her life, the first item she reached for upon rising was her eyebrow pencil.
Sam Goldwyn had a notorious predilection for ladies with fuller figures. He found little to admire in Lucille’s understated torso and tried to convince Berkeley to release the new girl. The choreographer held firm; true, this scrawny blonde radiated little sensuality, but there was something different and appealing about her. Not that the choreographer gave Lucille any breaks. He was a hard taskmaster, sometimes drunk and always demanding, rehearsing dances over and over again until she could barely walk home. The next day, though, she would be back on the job, looking for a way to insinuate herself into a scene, lobbying the writers for additional camera time. Perrin admired her willingness to do anything for a laugh; when Cantor wanted to restate the old custard-pie-in-the-face gag with mud taking the place of the pie, none of the girls wanted any part of it except Lucille. She also volunteered to get gummed by a trained crocodile. Perrin rewarded her with a couple of lines.
The weeks stretched out to months. Goldwyn was forced to extend the Lucille Ball contract, and she made herself at home in Hollywood. While the movie ground away, she discovered that Darryl F. Zanuck’s fledgling company, Twentieth Century–Fox, had leased studio space from Sam Goldwyn. During her downtime she hitched rides with trucks making their way onto various Fox sets, where she’d ask if anybody needed a walk-on. For two of Zanuck’s productions, small parts did become available, and Lucille was there to grab them. Before
Scandals
was released, moviegoers saw her, unbilled, in
Broadway Thru
a Keyhole
and
Blood Money.
One of Goldwyn’s executives described her apprenticeship: “She sweated out every goddamn break she got. She was one of dozens of girls at
The Kid from Spain,
had been a smash, and
Roman Scandals
was expected to exceed its grosses. George S. Kaufman and Robert E. Sherwood, each of whom would become a Pulitzer Prize winner in a few years, had been assigned to do the scenario. Dissatisfied with their dialogue, Goldwyn hired two of the Marx Brothers’ most inventive writers, Arthur Sheekman and Nat Perrin, to add gags and visual business. The cinematographer was Gregg Toland, who would go on to make
Citizen Kane.
Busby Berkeley, master choreographer of the 1930s, supervised the dances. The songs were written by Harry Warren and Al Dubin, later known for their score for
42nd
Street.
The cast included the popular singer Ruth Etting and character actors Edward Arnold and Alan Mowbray.
If the plot was less than original, at least it borrowed from prime sources: Mark Twain’s
A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court
and George Bernard Shaw’s
Androcles and the Lion.
Cantor, as a whimsical delivery boy named Eddie in West Rome, Oklahoma, falls asleep on the job. In a dream he is projected back to ancient Rome, where he serves as official food taster to the wicked emperor Valerius (Arnold). Before Cantor awakens, there are songs, anachronistic gags (for example, a slavemaster is disabled by fits of mirth when he inhales lava gas), an attempt to overthrow Valerius followed by a prolonged chase scene, a love story, and, predictably, many close-ups of scantily clad slave girls locked in chains as they await the emperor’s pleasure.
Lucille played one of the slaves, and she learned the hard way that filmmaking was neither as amusing nor as easy as it looked from the outside. Back in the 1930s the actor’s workday knew no limits. Sometimes shooting went on until 3 a.m. Even more demanding than the oppressive schedule, in Lucille’s view, was the studio’s decree that all the girls must resemble Harlow, the blonde luminary whose eyebrows were represented by two carefully penciled-in crescents. Accordingly, Lucy shaved off her eyebrows—and found to her distress that they never quite grew back. Every morning from that day to the end of her life, the first item she reached for upon rising was her eyebrow pencil.
Sam Goldwyn had a notorious predilection for ladies with fuller figures. He found little to admire in Lucille’s understated torso and tried to convince Berkeley to release the new girl. The choreographer held firm; true, this scrawny blonde radiated little sensuality, but there was something different and appealing about her. Not that the choreographer gave Lucille any breaks. He was a hard taskmaster, sometimes drunk and always demanding, rehearsing dances over and over again until she could barely walk home. The next day, though, she would be back on the job, looking for a way to insinuate herself into a scene, lobbying the writers for additional camera time. Perrin admired her willingness to do anything for a laugh; when Cantor wanted to restate the old custard-pie-in-the-face gag with mud taking the place of the pie, none of the girls wanted any part of it except Lucille. She also volunteered to get gummed by a trained crocodile. Perrin rewarded her with a couple of lines.
The weeks stretched out to months. Goldwyn was forced to extend the Lucille Ball contract, and she made herself at home in Hollywood. While the movie ground away, she discovered that Darryl F. Zanuck’s fledgling company, Twentieth Century–Fox, had leased studio space from Sam Goldwyn. During her downtime she hitched rides with trucks making their way onto various Fox sets, where she’d ask if anybody needed a walk-on. For two of Zanuck’s productions, small parts did become available, and Lucille was there to grab them. Before
Scandals
was released, moviegoers saw her, unbilled, in
Broadway Thru
a Keyhole
and
Blood Money.
One of Goldwyn’s executives described her apprenticeship: “She sweated out every goddamn break she got. She was one of dozens of girls at
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