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Authors: Sam Toperoff
Tags: General Fiction
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Lilly.”
He was hurting her wrist. “Humiliation for humiliation.”
He pulled her close. “I said, not here.”
“I’m going to spit in your eye.”
“No, you are not.”
Once in Galatoire’s in New Orleans a man came over to the table where she was having crayfish gumbo with her father. As the man approached, Max Hellman touched her hand and quietly said,
Don’t say a word. Whatever happens, let me take care of this
. The man was large, but so was her father. The man stuck his head low over their food. He called Hellman
Maxie
and said something about
You people …
and
Better watch your kosher ass …
Max Hellman waited, smiled upward and spit squarely in the man’s eye. Since Max had not quite swallowed his gumbo, the sight was disgusting in the extreme. Max then rose quickly and landed the first hard blow before they took the other man away. Galatoire’s did not want to lose Max Hellman’s patronage.
Lillian Hellman spit squarely in Dashiell Hammett’s eye. The amount of phlegm she produced surprised her. Hammett snorted and laughed.
Hammett said to the bartender, “Hey, pal, how about a towel?” And then to Lillian: “You are really something, you are.” And then to the bartender again: “She’s got a legitimate gripe. We’re not married.”
Lillian said, “No, we were only lovers.”
. 5 .
Movie Business
I T WAS RELATIVELY EARLY for them to be driving home, not yet 1:30 a.m. Hammett claimed he was tired and produced convincing yawns to prove it, which was fine since they were with old friends, Myra Ewbank and Phil Edmunds. The yawning began, Lillian observed, after his first cigar and snifter of cognac. It may even have been partly real; he had after all been up early and locked away writing a
Thin Man
sequel the entire day. After his second cigar and cognac, his weariness became more phony and more honest.
Phil and Myra had a place, a modern, Frank Lloyd Wright-ish home in the hills above and beyond Hollywood. They were married but Myra’s credits were always in her own name. They were both writers under contract to M-G-M. Everyone knew Myra as the stronger writer. The couple were known in the business as “fixers,” actually as “fixers of last resort.” When a once-promising script had gotten mangled beyond recognition by half a dozen failed approaches, Myraor Phil was called in to save the project before it was written off. Of all the staff writers, they were the only ones Louis B. Mayer could always identify correctly by name.
Myra, whom Lillian liked a great deal, once explained the simple secret of her success: go back and find the original script and then the first rewrite and discover exactly where the second version lost its way. Then simply bring it back to what Mayer or the production supervisor, David O. Selznick, liked about it to begin with. Pick up and follow that old trail. Of course, leave some small spaces for the big shots’ input as well. Just to make them feel as though they too were important fixers.
Once over lunch at the studio commissary, Myra told Lilly the story of what she had done with
Red-Headed Woman
. The popular novel had been far too racy for Mayer and certainly would have been bounced by the Hays Office. It had gone through seven rewrites and the studio’s last option was about to expire, so quite a bit of money had already been invested. The redhead in question was a beautiful but penniless young woman, Lil Andrews, who was willing to do anything—anything? Yes, anything—to improve herself in the world. Seduction of rich old men was her method of choice, and it was used exhaustively in the novel. She was killing old men off with bedsprings. Attached to the original screenplay was a memo recommending Garbo for the lead. A second memo said Garbo was not available, so the script was rewritten twice for Joan Crawford. Crawford still didn’twant to touch it. A new director came into the picture and thought Lil Andrews ought to become the
He was hurting her wrist. “Humiliation for humiliation.”
He pulled her close. “I said, not here.”
“I’m going to spit in your eye.”
“No, you are not.”
Once in Galatoire’s in New Orleans a man came over to the table where she was having crayfish gumbo with her father. As the man approached, Max Hellman touched her hand and quietly said,
Don’t say a word. Whatever happens, let me take care of this
. The man was large, but so was her father. The man stuck his head low over their food. He called Hellman
Maxie
and said something about
You people …
and
Better watch your kosher ass …
Max Hellman waited, smiled upward and spit squarely in the man’s eye. Since Max had not quite swallowed his gumbo, the sight was disgusting in the extreme. Max then rose quickly and landed the first hard blow before they took the other man away. Galatoire’s did not want to lose Max Hellman’s patronage.
Lillian Hellman spit squarely in Dashiell Hammett’s eye. The amount of phlegm she produced surprised her. Hammett snorted and laughed.
Hammett said to the bartender, “Hey, pal, how about a towel?” And then to Lillian: “You are really something, you are.” And then to the bartender again: “She’s got a legitimate gripe. We’re not married.”
Lillian said, “No, we were only lovers.”
. 5 .
Movie Business
I T WAS RELATIVELY EARLY for them to be driving home, not yet 1:30 a.m. Hammett claimed he was tired and produced convincing yawns to prove it, which was fine since they were with old friends, Myra Ewbank and Phil Edmunds. The yawning began, Lillian observed, after his first cigar and snifter of cognac. It may even have been partly real; he had after all been up early and locked away writing a
Thin Man
sequel the entire day. After his second cigar and cognac, his weariness became more phony and more honest.
Phil and Myra had a place, a modern, Frank Lloyd Wright-ish home in the hills above and beyond Hollywood. They were married but Myra’s credits were always in her own name. They were both writers under contract to M-G-M. Everyone knew Myra as the stronger writer. The couple were known in the business as “fixers,” actually as “fixers of last resort.” When a once-promising script had gotten mangled beyond recognition by half a dozen failed approaches, Myraor Phil was called in to save the project before it was written off. Of all the staff writers, they were the only ones Louis B. Mayer could always identify correctly by name.
Myra, whom Lillian liked a great deal, once explained the simple secret of her success: go back and find the original script and then the first rewrite and discover exactly where the second version lost its way. Then simply bring it back to what Mayer or the production supervisor, David O. Selznick, liked about it to begin with. Pick up and follow that old trail. Of course, leave some small spaces for the big shots’ input as well. Just to make them feel as though they too were important fixers.
Once over lunch at the studio commissary, Myra told Lilly the story of what she had done with
Red-Headed Woman
. The popular novel had been far too racy for Mayer and certainly would have been bounced by the Hays Office. It had gone through seven rewrites and the studio’s last option was about to expire, so quite a bit of money had already been invested. The redhead in question was a beautiful but penniless young woman, Lil Andrews, who was willing to do anything—anything? Yes, anything—to improve herself in the world. Seduction of rich old men was her method of choice, and it was used exhaustively in the novel. She was killing old men off with bedsprings. Attached to the original screenplay was a memo recommending Garbo for the lead. A second memo said Garbo was not available, so the script was rewritten twice for Joan Crawford. Crawford still didn’twant to touch it. A new director came into the picture and thought Lil Andrews ought to become the
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