'Everything okay?' she asked Bud, who did Ray.
'Yup,' Bud answered, looking up, smiling. 'For once Ray's out of that mask. Just a standard paint job now.'
'I feel like a used car,' said Bolger, hugging himself. 'The only thing I'm going to remember about this picture, Millie, is sitting in this chair. Even a dentist's appointment doesn't take as long.'
'Well, at least today you're out of that mask.'
'And it's black-and-white.' He pretended to sob with relief. Black-and-white meant cooler lights.
'Jack'll be able to sit down,' said Bud.
Jack Haley's Tin Man suit dented. He couldn't sit, for eight, ten hours, so he had to lean on a board.
'Bert'll have to find something else to worry about.'
'Yeah.' Ray chuckled. The boys were a pretty swell team, actually.
'When's the Kid due?' asked Bud, wiping the last of the suds off Ray's face.
'Not till six-thirty,' said Millie. 'I'm going to the canteen, get some breakfast. You boys want anything?'
'Had mine, Millie, thanks. I'll just-'
'Sit around and wait, and sit around and wait some more.' She, Bolger and Bud said it in unison.
'See you,' she said.
Millie loved working in movies. Never wanted any other job. Because of the people. It wasn't glamorous. There was nothing glamorous in it at all, really. She hated the whole concept of glamour. It was more than glamour. It was people working together to make something good, and when you worked for a class act like MGM, you knew you were doing something worthwhile. There were times when Millie could feel the whole giant enterprise ticking away. The sets, the lights, the makeup, the costumes. Like this morning. One set finished with yesterday, it gets struck overnight, painted again, and a new one put up. People working around the clock on something that reached out and got to people. That was what Millie liked. The sheer sociability of a lot of it. She looked at the rafters and the Monkeys, whipping wire. Been there all night probably. Wouldn't even know the story of the picture. But they could go and see it and say, I put that set up. You wouldn't have believed how phony it looked, either, but it looks good on film.
With a small, contented smile, Millie went to have her breakfast.
Mind you, she thought, listening to her shoes, feeling the delicious California chill again, this one's shaping up pretty poorly. I mean, doing a fairy tale as vaudeville is pretty risky. You got two different elements. Lahr and the other boys are great, but there is no getting away from it, what they do is pure vaudeville. The Kid, too, she's pure vaudeville. But the sets, the whole works is Viennese operetta stuff with a little bit of Hollywood Hotel thrown in. And there is just no script. Everybody keeps adding lines. The songwriters add lines. Lahr and Haley throw in old stage routines. They had God knows how many writers on it. And God knows how many directors. Thorpe. He went. Tried to make the Kid into Shirley Temple, and with the best will in the world, she's not curly-haired and cute. Brought in Cukor, who got her out of the wig, and then Fleming, who at least gets things done, then King Vidor. Picture will be a mess if they aren't careful. Black-and-white here, color there. And some of the filming really is sloppy. Like that Monkey, flipping a wire out of the way, right in shot, and they went and used it anyway. I just can't believe that.
Millie sighed, shook her head. Well. Ours not to reason why.
More coffee. Doughnut. Bacon and eggs. Long day today and it's cold. Millie remembered farm breakfasts in Missouri.
'Hi, Hank,' she said to the man in the white cap.
Our own little world.
Millie sat by herself. Not many people in for breakfast just on six. She carefully unloaded things from her tray, like she was setting the table at home. She sat down and sighed. Bushed already.
Still, things sometimes come together for a picture. Like that coat.
Frank Morgan says he found it, him and Hank Rosson. They went looking for a coat for the black-and-white stuff. Found it in a secondhand store and showed it to Vic. They wanted something that would look shabby but genteel. The Wizard wears it when he's Professor Marvel. Vic turns out the pockets, and the label says 'L. Frank Baum.' Man who wrote the book. He used to read it out loud to kids on his porch, lived in L.A. and that was his coat. Got an affidavit from his tailor, they say. Mind you, they'll say anything. Too good to be true, like most things around here.
Millie thought about the Kid. She was nice really. But funny-looking. She wasn't pretty at all. Our little hunchback, Mayer called her. And her expressions were peculiar. Her smile would sort of twist around and look a bit sour sometimes. Then she'd pull herself together for the camera, stand up straight, look like a different person.
A lot of them could do that. That weaselly little private-school boy who played all the tough guys. Tiny, ropy- looking little thing until he had to act. One star Millie could name looked like an effeminate toad, until the lights came on. Then suddenly his toad neck looked burly, his hands developed wrists, and his voice went deep. Women all over the country swooned. Thought he was the epitome of beefcake.
Funny about the Kid. She liked guys like that. There she was, the world at her feet, going to premieres, the whole bit. And you'd see her hanging around with all the little fairies from the offices or from Wardrobe. Being real nice to them, nice to everybody, why not? Still it's funny. It's like she wants something from them. That little light in her eyes. Odd.
Millie lit a cigarette.
God, this hour of the morning, who wants to think about anything?
Numb.
Oh. Is that the time? Better move on.
Millie put everything back on the tray, carried it over to the rack, took out a fresh piece of gum.
