Excerpts of Hollywood Stories

Memoir of a Starlet

I still needed my big break to push me over the edge. I was becoming recognizable around the lot and was getting quite a few calls through my agent, but everything I was offered after The Damsel was “friend of” or “showgirl” or even “house staff” which usually involved some kind of torrid affair. I knew I was capable of so much more, I just needed an opportunity. But until it came I took some of those other parts, and took a filing job in the writing department to give me something else to do in my off time. I figured the more people saw me, the more they’d keep me in mind for bigger parts, or perhaps I’d stumble into an opportunity by chance when one of the overdramatic Missies quit their projects on a tear and refused to come back even though it was already paid for.

It was around this time I started to consider writing something for myself. Being a female screenwriter was difficult, but not unheard of in the slightest. I thought that if I wrote something worthwhile for myself then I could get it made with the right connections, and then I wouldn’t have to wait around any longer for Cadillac Joe and Pistol Pete to notice I had real talent. Be so good they can’t deny you, right? Sifting through years of trash bin worthy “masterpieces” furthered my instinct that I had a knack for storytelling. I’d been tooling around on projects here and there for years, bits and pieces of dialogue or an idea that could be something. It was about time I turned them into something. Easier said than done.

On days when I needed a little extra inspiration, I tagged along on some of the studio tours. On top of seeing everything around the lot - what folks were working on, famous exhibits from the past - I got a particular kick out of watching the people on the tours. Some were excited tourists who had never seen anything like it, all dressed up for their day out in Hollywood. Some were clearly wannabe filmmakers or actors who had stars in their eyes being feet away from stardom, they looked around more nervously at times but took pictures of everything. Now and then one of them would disappear at the opportune moment around the bend between stages three and four and eventually be led out by security if they were found wandering. Once in a while, there were people I couldn’t quite place, though they seemed to be enjoying themselves. 

One particular day in late May, I’d just finished a morning of particularly grueling scenes for Mr. Hawthorne’s horror picture - my least favorite genre - and I needed a break. I was playing a showgirl who’s killed off in the middle of the picture when she discovers the killer’s secret. The character ends up covered in blood in a bathtub, a la Psycho but much less iconic. I’d been screaming for every take for the past hour and each time they yelled cut wondering how best to mentally slap my agent over setting me up for it in the first place. The star of said picture was Payne Morris, one of my least favorite to work with, and if I had the time or the page space he’d have his own chapter about how miserable he was to everyone in town. He insisted on fourteen screaming takes and still wasn’t satisfied but, after some convincing, was assured we could come back for pickups in a few weeks if there was time. I wanted to clear my head, and once I had washed off all the fake blood I could get to, I decided that riding around the lot for a while should do the trick.

Right on time the empty tram pulled up in front of the visitor center next to a short line of dazed patrons. The tour guide today was Randall, a flamboyant stage performer with comedic timing that could’ve rivaled Jerry Lewis. Today’s group of snowbird tourists would appreciate his corny jokes and his behind the scenes stories. I sat toward the back so as not to take up anyone’s prime view, it wasn’t a full tour so there was a fair amount of room for folks to spread out on the double rider. Randall waved me on as he took tickets from the line, and that’s when I saw him. 

Waiting in the middle of the line was a man, about my age, well over six feet tall with a strong build, and blonde hair that was cut short in a professional manner. I could tell it was new for him the way he kept fussing with it, like he was trying to fit it to his head. Though they were exceptionally tailored, he shifted in his clothes too, almost like they had belonged to someone else and he’d just tried them on. He wore tan slacks with a white collared shirt underneath a brown suit jacket, complimented by brown suede shoes. Something about him seemed familiar to me, though I knew I’d never seen him before. He had the redness of a slight sunburn on his face indicating that he’d spent some time recently in the California sun but he wasn’t from around here. There was a woman with him standing just to his side. She was about my height with shoulder length dark hair. She stood up very straight and moved gingerly, but intentionally, with every movement. She wore ankle length brown tweed pants with a white blouse, and similarly suede brown shoes. They complimented each other in every way, and exhibited the kind of image I envisioned for myself someday. 

The line slowly shortened as folks made their way to seats. The well-dressed couple made their way around to the opposite side of the tram and curiously sat in the seats just ahead of me on the opposite side of the row. When they did, I noticed that while he did not have on a wedding ring, she had on several pieces of gold jewelry and a rather sparkly round diamond on that finger. Typical of course, all the good ones were always taken.

I observed them as we circled the lot. While she seemed more tourist than anything, he gave me the impression he was one of the starry-eyed filmmaker types the way he observed the opposite of whatever Randall was talking about. He clearly wanted to talk to her and point out his thoughts, while she clearly wanted to listen to Randall. She never shushed him, and he never seemed bothered by the fact she wasn’t really listening, but they appeared to operate in an interesting dynamic - both completely together and in two different worlds. Eventually we reached the sound stages and they both reconnected in awe, mesmerized by the goings on. His eyes wandered again over to the writing building and the production offices, an odd thing for someone to notice no doubt, as in comparison they were quite inconspicuous. He never put his arm around her and they never held hands. I wasn’t sure why I noticed that, but I did. 

When the tour was over we filed back off the tram and a few visitors remained to ask more of their burning questions to Randall. The couple hopped off together and idled for a moment as if waiting for something. He checked his watch while she tapped her foot. Finally they decided to forgo whatever they were waiting for and make their way on their own. I watched as they walked back across the lot in the direction of the front office. As I observed their figures shrinking into the distance, I wondered when it would be my turn for a man like that to walk into my life. I don’t know why, but I suddenly felt something important had just happened, like I had signaled a change to the universe. Perhaps I’d just let them know that I was ready for someone else important after all this time. I just knew that soon, a change was going to come.

The Private Life of Mimi Hardwicke

The day of the funeral was sunny, but almost in an eerie kind of way. It was like time was standing still. The small, quieter section of Forest Lawn she was being buried in was off the beaten path, like it was deliberately hidden. She had requested this spot specifically according to Alan. 

He was there, as well as a handful of others. Jimmy couldn’t bring himself to go, but had given me flowers to lay and told me to stop by the bar afterwards. I recognized most among the small crowd, all dressed in their best designer black: her old agent, her stylist and her makeup artist, a few people I had seen at her dinner parties but had never spoken to. Desiree, her hairstylist, was in shambles. It was nice of them to come considering how many didn’t. No Jen, no Rick, none of her co-stars or “old friends.” The one person I knew would never show his face, but somehow still half expected to be the dramatic shadow looming on top of the hill, was absent. Fitting, really. 

There was only one person, sort of off to the side on his own that I had never seen before. He was quite tall, with straight posture, a man who looked like he had a strong handshake. He had light hair and what looked like blue eyes from afar. Looking at his face I couldn’t read his emotion, if there was one. He was just sort of there, like the trees were there, standing firm, letting the breeze blow through him. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I might have seen him somewhere, but like snowflakes, the idea melted before I ever had a chance to examine it.

The service was short and sweet, just how she would have wanted it. Don’t dwell, she would have said, just have a drink and listen to Island in the Sun. Maybe have two drinks, or the whole bottle. I doubt she would have even requested a formal service of any kind, yet here we were. The stranger shifted uncomfortably from time to time but his attention never wavered. The priest made his final remarks, and that was it. A few mourners dropped white roses into the plot on their way out. Alan, mid-conversation with Mimi’s attorney passed by me and tapped my shoulder -

“We’ll talk next week.” he said without stopping.

I heard a vague mention of life rights as their voices faded away.

The stranger was still standing there, as if waiting for something. The priest shook his hand as he exited, prompting that snowflake to land after all. I wasn’t sure exactly what compelled me to speak to him, maybe the fact that we were both alone, both still there, both being blown by the same breeze. He moved closer to her, instinctively, so did I. We stood there a moment, side by side a few feet apart. I tried to conjure something to say, but it’s hard to know what to say to someone you’ve never met, who you’re only vaguely sure of based on a passing quip from months before. Before I could think of anything, he spoke first.

“I’m not sure she’d like how quiet it is over here.”

He didn’t look at me, but there was no one else left he could really be talking to. 

“I don’t know, she did like the solitude, when she got it.”

“I guess people change.”

“Sometimes.”

I stalled, and we stood in the silent moment, questions hanging in the air between us. 

“Did you know her well?” I asked.

“A long time ago, can’t say I know much now.”

“But you still came, that says something.”

“Didn’t have much choice I guess, she left me in charge of her arrangements. Everything really.”

His answer confirmed my suspicion.

“I’m Noelle.”

“Jay.”

“Nice to meet you. I’ve heard -”

“Nothing about me if I had to guess.”

His light, jolly-ish tone failed to cover up his own conflict on the matter, but I didn’t inquire further.

“She mentioned you once, briefly. I guess she must have liked you to leave you in charge of everything.”

“She hated me, actually. Can’t say I blame her.”

The silence between us returned until he, realizing the cliff he had left us on the edge of, finished his thought.

“She didn’t have much family left, any family really. I guess making her least favorite ex-husband handle her funeral was her final joke.”

We both looked down at her headstone, already done and firmly in place.

“Is this your doing?”

“It was the only thing about her entire funeral and death package she didn’t specify.”

It read: 

Margaret “Mimi” Hardwicke

Some years

Favorite Ex-Wife

I couldn’t help but chuckle. Of all things to be.

“I thought maybe somewhere she’d get a kick out of it, I don’t know. That morbid sense of humor.”

I paused before responding. Of course it was ridiculous, but at the same time he was right. I reached out to shake his hand and answered the question he hadn’t really asked.

“She would have loved it.” 

He smiled. And that was that.

I decided to follow through and go see Jimmy and have a lemon drop martini in her honor. I wasn’t sure why, but it felt like what she would have wanted me to do. She would have said we needed each other, now more than ever - the only real people left in Los Angeles. Most of the past year had been an exploration of who Mimi Hardwicke was, and the life she lived. I couldn’t have known what it would turn my life into.

Most people think she was this angelic, out of this world starlet, a being unlike any other who lived in perpetual sunlight. Some people think she was the most cunning, clever, and devious manipulator they had ever met, and that she used us all for her own entertainment and disappeared when she got bored. I suppose it is possible. As for me, I think that she must have been the most genuine person I had ever met, for better or worse. She was loving and kind, and she wanted the best for everyone. Even when they walked all over her, she didn’t care, that’s just who she was. Something about who she had been, the stories she would never tell, were the reason she was that way, I was sure of it. So, in Mimi fashion, for all I’ve been through, I am choosing to see the story like she saw life - through rose colored glasses. Why? Because she wanted to. And so do I.