Hollywood Hush

Chapter One – An the Winner Is…

Locked in the studio’s Duesenberg on the way to the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel, Greta raged to panic, picturing herself as a prisoner on her way to a hanging.

When the car stopped at a red light, her eyes darted quickly from left and right, pensively wringing the handkerchief in her hands over and over.

If I jump out, could I tuck and roll without hurting myself? But in this ridiculously tight mummy gown the costume people stuck me in, there’s no way I can do an acrobatic move without splitting the seams to smithereens.

Not sure which consequence would be more embarrassing, she gasped as deep a breath as her lungs could manage in the fabric vise.

As the limousine drove down Hollywood Boulevard approaching the hotel, she grabbed a gold compact mirror from her silver beaded handbag to fix her lipstick. Grimacing at her reflection, she realized she must have been unconsciously biting her lips with nervous energy during the car ride. The hours-long glam treatment she had undergone in the makeup chair was mostly intact, but her lips were another story.

Taking her red lipstick from her bag, Greta chuckled remembering what her makeup artist Myrtle always told her.

“A red lip is the most important tool in my arsenal. No matter what I do, without a juicy red lip, you look dead.”

Myrtle was always right. She provided Greta with more than a glam-look; she was responsible for her mask. One thing Greta learned over her years in the picture business was to keep the veil up in public. Her glam mask was merely part and parcel of the illusion of the glamorous movie star she created for the fans and the press—on and off screen. Her looks, her walk, and her clothes all had to be absolutely and indescribably perfect, no matter what. On the red carpet, she was what they created: Jane Taylor, movie star.

Gazing into the mirror with her full red lip reapplied, she paused at the view in the glass musing.

I don’t even know who I am anymore. The marquee reads Jane Taylor. And in this mirror, that is who I see. But every morning in my bathroom mirror, I’m still Greta Bauerbaum of the East Village, daughter of German immigrants.

Sitting next to her on the leather seats, she picked up a screen magazine with her picture on the cover and shook her head. The headline on the magazine cover read: “Jane Taylor… from Movie Star to Academy Award Winner?”

She certainly looks like a movie star. It’s almost like a secret identity, but she doesn’t exist. It’s sheer fiction.

Remembering all the phony stories in the movie magazines about her life, her loves, she thumbed through the pages, knowing each one contained pure fiction made up by studios to fuel the movie star illusion. The press used it to sell magazines and papers. And the people believed all of it was real.

“Oh my God, it’s all so false! These magazines are like the fake sets in my movies. They look real on the outside, but there’s nothing behind them. And now I’m on my way to this stupid award ceremony where everybody pretends to be something they’re not. It never ends.” She threw the magazine back on the seat.

“Did you say something, Miss Taylor?” the driver called back to her.

Greta smiled and leaned slightly forward.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“David, ma’am,” he replied.

Greta winced a little at the moniker. She hated being called “ma’am.” At the tender age of thirty, she believed she was too young to be a ma’am.

“Well, David, what have you heard about this awards ceremony?” Greta asked coyly.

“Heard ma’am? Well, I think it’ll be packed with cars all right. Every limousine in Hollywood will be in front of the Roosevelt Hotel today,” he said.

Greta slightly shook her head and then stopped and contemplated the potential harm to Jane Taylor’s platinum wig.

“The Academy Awards, they’re calling it. The studio bosses cooked this whole thing up to keep the unions at bay and stop the grumblings about the way the factory treats everyone. That’s what we call the movie studios, the factory, because we crank movies out like car parts.”

“People smarter than me say these awards are a token olive branch to make us all feel special and appreciated. Recognizing significant achievement, I think they call it. And believe it or not, I’m nominated,” she said, then laughed a little.

“Wow, that’s impressive Miss Taylor. Congratulations,” David gave her a polite smile.

Greta sighed.

“Not really. My studio put me up for some acting award for my last picture, Devil or Angel. It’s a big deal, I guess. The studio hype machine has been peddling the nomination nearly as much as the movie.”

“I saw that movie with my best girl. I liked it, but she loved it. Especially the part where you fight with yourself. How did they do that?” he enthusiastically asked.

Greta laughed out loud reminiscing about the great lengths they went through to create that scene, all while she wrestled with a double to look like her dual-role counterpart.

“Movie magic, my dear man. I am proud of the movie and the praise is appreciated for a job well done, but it’s probably gonna be a whole lot of hoopla and no substance, just like everything else. It’s ironic that giving out some awards can lure people into such a fabricated sense of false identity. Sometimes, I wonder if anything in Hollywood is real,” Greta muses.

“I don’t know anything about that, Miss Taylor. I just like to go to see the pictures. It’s a good time,” David grinned through the rearview mirror.

Greta stared at him and smiled.

“Thanks, David. I needed that. Knowing that people like you enjoy my movies makes it all worthwhile.”

The car slowed to a crawl and then gently halted.

“Here’s the end of the line, Miss Taylor. Hang tight, it could be awhile,” he said, muting his grin.

Greta leaned back as her nerves returned. She packed her compact, lipstick, and handkerchief back into her gold-beaded purse, waiting for her exit. Tightly clutching her purse, her thoughts again drifted toward her insecurities.

Am I a good actress or did I just fall into it at the right time? Maybe it’s all just the hype. Do I really deserve this nomination? And is it even real?

“Here you go, Miss Taylor. We’re up.” David put the car in park, then turned around and smiled.

In near panic, Greta tried to take another breath but fell short.

I’m really not ready for this, she thinks to herself. Sometimes I think I should give it up, but I’m in too deep. What else am I good for?

Disregarding her feelings, she quickly put on the mask of her movie star persona. “Thank you, David,” she purred.

As the car door opened, she firmly planted her heels on the red carpet and struck a pose, waving to the crowd with flashbulbs popping in the air like bright fireworks in her face.

I hate the red carpet; all I can see is white dots. It’s all I can do to concentrate on placing one foot in front of the other without falling on my face in this straitjacket getup. Who wants a mummy for a movie star, anyway? She feared.

Despite her internal turmoil, she knew her mission. She had to become the Jane Taylor from the movie magazines and act like a movie star… her greatest role.

As she strolled down the carpet, she heard people shouting her name, which was a pleasant reminder of her popularity. But as she made one last stop in front of renowned Hollywood columnist Louella Parsons, she was reminded of the fantasy of the whole thing. Regaining her composure, she recited the lines the studio publicity writers gave her. No stone is left unturned in the studio factory. Every sound bite is scripted for maximum headlines and effect.

Even the famed columnist played her own part as a cog in the publicity machine by telling true and false tales about everyone in town.

Tailored in a stunning black velvet gown with fitted bodice and flowing skirt, Louella topped it with one of her signature extravagant hats, this one with a netting design and usual finest couture, wearing a large diamond necklace and fur stole.

Louella Parsons welcomed Jane Taylor with a big smile and her typical sweet motherly tone, which hides the shark beneath. But Greta liked Louella, they’d known each other for years and Louella was always very favorable to her.

Stepping up to the large, round and flat microphone, Greta felt somewhat intimidated by the imposing presence of the landmark event.

“Jane Taylor, how glorious you look,” Louella said with her sweet, kindly flourish.

Smiling in her movie star pose, Greta slowly began her lines.

“Thank you. You look marvelous too. I’m just glad to be here.”

“My, my dear. You shouldn’t be so humble. A leading actress nomination is no small feat. You have to be deserving of it.” Louella said.

Interrupted by fans screaming her name, Greta smiled and waved to the gleeful crowd.

“It’s just a privilege to be included in such a prestigious category with these wonderful actresses.”

Louella slightly raised an eyebrow and shot her a Cheshire grin.

“I notice you are alone today. Tell us, no special man to share this with?”

Greta pasted on a blank grin, completely caught unaware by a personal question. Tapping into her acting skills, she giggled in a lower tone, becoming of her age and position in the industry.

“Really, Louella, you minx. Tonight I’m focusing on this wonderful honor.”

Louella smirked at Greta and shifted her interest to a cute little giggling starlet, obviously pleased to be posing for photographers.

“Wonderful. Well, good luck, Jane.” Louella abruptly and practically knocked Greta out of the way for this new “it” girl.

Happy to be out of her clutches, but smarting from the blow to her ego, Greta glanced at the new starlet du jour.

They all had the same mold: very young, blond, cute and bubbly.

Greta grinned at the girl. She’s fully aware that as her youthful looks start to droop, she’ll soon be out on my ear, replaced by the new model movie star. Just like walking a tightrope between popularity, talent and good looks. Talent usually loses. It’s never age before beauty in Hollywood.

As she glides into the hotel lobby, Greta is greeted by a who’s who of Hollywood. Stars, directors, writers, studio moguls and every actor or actress the studio PR people want to be seen. A true circus of people smiling and posing for cameras, but who knew how they really felt about these first awards.

Greta made insipid small talk with a few people about how glamorous everyone looked and how excited they were, but inside her anxiety grew in epic proportions. When the lights dimmed and everyone took their seats, she hyped herself into a frenzy.

How can I sit here and pretend I deserve this? Like I’m some celebrated actress. That’s a joke. I’m a fraud, she reflected to herself.

Seated at a table with other actors and actresses from her studio, Greta barely spoke to anyone and only politely nibbled and picked at the broiled chicken on toast and sauteed filet of sole with a side of string beans and French fries, followed by cake and chocolate or vanilla ice cream. With somersaulting butterflies in her stomach, she was too nervous to eat, even though her constricting garment wouldn’t have allowed much to pass through.

When the feasting was over, the ceremony began.

Swashbuckling actor and industry insider Douglas Fairbanks, president of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, took the podium with his gleaming roguish smile and began to read the winners, but her panic only mounted.

Oh no, they’re at my category. What should I do? Smile and look humble. But all I really wanna do is scream, cry, and run. Maybe if I wish hard enough, it’ll work. Please don’t let me win. Please don’t let me win.

“And in the category of leading actress, the winner is?…”

Wriggling in her seat as much as she could in her constrained straightjacket dress, one thought crossed her mind as she closed her eyes.

How did I get here? It was years ago, but sometimes it seems like yesterday I was serving bratwurst, sauerkraut and schnitzel in my family restaurant. I wish I were there now.