Mary Pickford: “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
Mirror: “I said that you really shouldn’t leave the house wearing such a mess. Especially if you plan to flop your hands around like that. You’re not six years old anymore, honey.”
Mary: “But I’m America’s Sweetheart!”
Mirror: “Well, you look like America’s Simpleton. Go change. There’s no tea party here, Alice.”
Mary: “But-”
Mirror: “Go!”
Mary paused briefly, unsettled, then she burst into tears and raced off the stage, wailing and lamenting and rending her fake hair, because melodramatic silent-film stars never did anything with even a modicum of reserve. Three seconds later, shouting ensued as Mary accused the young gossip-columnist Hedda Hopper of destroying her career. This was the absolute worst thing that Mary could do, as Hedda hadn’t been on the set for any malfeasance other than to swipe some shrimp puffs from the craft services table. Now, however, Hedda’s intentions quickly veered from crustacean-crimping to personal vendetta. Mary was about to find out that Sweethearts had expiration dates that could easily be adjusted by the venomous typewriter of sexually-repressed columnists.
As the verbal fireworks intensified, Joan Crawford stepped out from behind the mirror, laid a microphone on the now-vacated wicker bench, and smiled slyly. Then she turned and exited the stage in the opposite direction, now intent on the next phase of her nefarious plan to conquer Hollywood.
The director, having witnessed all of this without anyone noticing because movie stars rarely understand who is truly responsible for their ascension, turned to his assistant. “I think we need to rework the script if we’re going to salvage this movie. Go find a writer who can craft a story where a major star gets killed off in the first twenty minutes of the movie. It’s never been done before, but our choices are limited since Sweetheart’s career is toast as soon as Hedda’s next column hits the newsstands.”
Assistant: “Actually, sir, I’ve already written just the script you need. We’ll have to change one of the character names to Norma Bates, but otherwise it should work splendidly.”
Director: “That sounds rather smashing. You’re a good man…uh… sorry, I’m not sure of your name. Production Assistants come and go around here like virginity at a barn dance.”
Assistant: “Oh, I believe it. I plan to fire many of them in the future. The name’s Hitchcock, sir. Alfred Hitchcock.”
Director: “Hitchcock? That sounds like something that will never get past the censors.”
Alfred: “Trust me. I can get around those censors.”
There was a sudden clatter offstage, and then Joan Crawford raced back on the set. “Just so you know, I’m perfectly willing to appear in a nude shower scene.”
Director: “I didn’t see that coming.”
Alfred: “And neither will the shower.”
Categories: Past Imperfect
Bonnywood Manor 
Just hitting the like button is so wrong.
Once again, thanks for the laugh!
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Thanks, Vanessa! It’s always a pleasure when you stop by Bonnywood for a spot of tea and some story-swapping… 😉
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Haha What a kind thing to say, thank you!
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Obviously Joan was well on her way to being Mommie Dearest.
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Interestingly enough, that’s the exact same phrase found in the commentary section of Little Lucille’s first-grade report card…
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Um, isn’t arm flapping like that a soothing technique that autistic persons use? Me? Poor Mary there was able to become an easy target (koff koff VICTIM koff koff) of the remarkably unbeautiful Ms. Crawford (do something about the freakin’ eyebrows! Those things look like two woolly caterpillars on the make…) because of the bodice of that er, dress she’s wearing. Built in corsets lost their appeal because of the hallucinatory effect, didn’t they? Women passing out and turning blue, gasping for air…and the things corsets did to the fun bags. As the incomparable Ms. Julie Andrews said “If I keep binding my bosoms like this, they’ll come to resemble two sad, empty coin purses”…(paraphrased and apologies to Victor/Victoria writers…I’m off my game today and couldn’t pull the exact quote from the jungle ‘tween my ears…
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You know, you have my own jungle clicking away with a thought. I wonder how many of the world’s problems could be eliminated if MEN were forced to wear corsets. This is perhaps a simplistic and naive line of inquiry, but it could also lead to me being bestowed the Nobel Peace Prize. I shall begin my research post-haste….
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Hmm… Trying to replace Janet Leigh with Joan Crawford… nope, can’t see it.
And praise be, we never had to.
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No, Joan would never work. For starters, the knife would probably snap in two before even making a scratch in the shower scene, thus requiring extensive rewrites…
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Mae-stroooooo! This one hits every button chez moi, lighting me up like a snorting heffer on heat. You are on crackling form 😊
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I feel so honored to have contributed to you snorting in such a manner. I’m sure it was a delight to behold… 😉
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Since j’ai tombé sur toi (which is one of my favourite French expressions … we don’t come across people, we fall over them which given my dispraxic disposition is SO appropriate 😂) I have such clear nasal passages …. the snorting does them no end of good 👃
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Norma Bates! That would be great. This is such an awesome post i could comment super long, but i’ll leave it at awesome. 🙂
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Leaving it at awesome is very satisfying, but a part of me yearns for your deeper analysis, as I so enjoy your words. Unlike the film stars who apparently think they thought of the dialogue themselves… 😉
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