Chapter Three. The Sound and the Cinematography

Johnny did not look forward to spending days trying to force a man to do work he didn't want to do. Not to mention keeping him, as Horace's friend Mr. Wald had put it, "sober at all costs."





Faulkner’s face went utterly expressionless. Then, from far down in those depthless eyes, a dim light appeared and gradually brightened into a gleam of understanding.





But when Faulkner suggested they get off “this hill-cradled patch of desolation” and motor into Hollywood in search of real food, they dug in their heels.




Bacall raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?” she said.





Then Hawks was narrowing his eyes and peering at the boys thoughtfully. “Not the Ed and Johnny?”





They wandered around the eerily moon-washed lot, calling Bill’s name, but to no avail.





The boys sprinted to their car and tore out of the lot. Or drove, at least, as fast as their thirteen-year-old Nash would allow.





Half an hour later they rumbled to a halt in front of Union Station.





The waiting room was apparently deserted, not an author in sight.





Faulkner, without further ado, started to type. He wrote without cease for exactly forty-seven minutes. Johnny timed him.




Faulkner's jauntiness evaporated before their eyes. His sentences grew longer as he waxed indignant about prostituting himself in Hollywood. Ed gave up and looked around.





At a table in the corner, Nicholas Ray and John Huston were arm wrestling.




A guy with big ears egging them on might have been John O'Hara.




Erskine Caldwell did a double take. "I say balderdash!"




Whereupon the two of them had driven out to the Glendale airfield to admire Hawks's lovely new Beech 35 Bonanza.




They sat in the plane sampling a number of bottles the director had left strewn about the floor and seats...



...and the next thing Hawks knew he was lying on his back in an avocado orchard in Pico Rivera.





"The bastard stole my plane," Hawks growled. "He stole my plane and flew his drunken bastard ass back to Mississippi!"





But as J.L. began to read this script, they saw the same facial transformation in reverse. His beet-red flesh turned to a mellow tan. His eyes unsquinched, his brow lifted...



...and by the bottom of the second page his mouth had relaxed into something between a smirk and a smile. “Okay,” he said. “It looks good enough.”





"Not one of my best books, I'm afraid," Bill said, "but a man has to keep the pot boiling."





“I still don’t get how a guy could trade in celluloid for pulp,” Johnny said. “But thanks.”
The great man called back, "Just don't you trade in celluloid for anything."



Click on "Older Posts" for Chapter 4 and beyond...