About the fifth time she hammered at him, he tried it, in a two-reel tear-jerker called Where’s Father? He was big enough to admit it worked. He praised Lily for sticking to her convictions, promised he’d adopt the technique when it was appropriate. “The hell with what Al says.”
B.B. and Sophie left for two months, sailing from New York to England to set up a London exchange, then to cross the Channel to peddle Liberty’s wares in Berlin and Paris. At the end of the trip, at Fritzi’s insistence, the Pelzers had dinner with Paul and Julie at Café Royal in London. Julie later wrote that B.B. fought for the bill and won.
The Edendale neighborhood was growing busy. Fritzi’s old acquaintance Michael Sinnott, rechristened Mack Sennett, took up residence on a lot not far up the street. Mack’s company was called Keystone, after the logo of the Pennsylvania Railroad, which he freely appropriated. Mack had brought his diminutive girlfriend, a brunette named Mabel Normand, out west with him, along with some dependable actors. He continued to produce the kind of zany police comedies Griffith had dismissed as silly.
The wife of the affable and talented actor who’d replaced Owen as the Lone Indian, Geoffrey Germann, worked as a freelance costumer for picture companies. In the late summer of 1913, Maybelle was employed for several weeks at Mack Sennett’s lot up the street. Geoff invited Fritzi to join them for an evening showing of a new picture, to be followed by a picnic of the kind B.B. often threw when Liberty closed up production on a picture.
Sennett’s lot at 1712 Alessandro resembled Liberty’s, though it had a more imposing entrance, a wooden arch with a large sign reading
MACK SENNETT
Keystone Comedies
Elaborate construction was underway just inside. Framing was complete for a new building with the skeleton of a tower at one corner. A man securing a tool chest for the night noticed Fritzi’s interest in the tower. “His office goes up there. Steam room, private bath—got to hire a crane to lift the tub. I hear it’s big as a swimming pool.”
Sennett greeted her warmly by the picnic tables where actors, crew people, and guests filled their plates with slices of ham and turkey, potato salad and beans and biscuits. Fritzi congratulated him on his success. “It’s wonderful, Mike—I mean Mack, I’m not used to that name yet. You’re a tycoon. Your very own studio, with a lot of creature comforts in that tower of yours.”
“We’ll have a gym in the new administration building. Man’s got to be fit and comfortable to do his best work.” His smile faded as a new thought came into his mind. “But it isn’t as grand as it looks. For the first time I’m responsible for a payroll. And a pile of debt.” Despite his disclaimers he looked very successful in his fine three-piece suit of summer linen with a glittering cravat stickpin.
“Mr. Griffith’s moved here permanently, hasn’t he?”
“Yes, and most of the old Biograph gang came too. Billy Bitzer, Lionel Barrymore, Hank Walthall, the Gish girls. Little Mary left him for Zukor’s Famous Players.”
“I know, I saw her there.”
“Hey, there’s my leading lady. Over here, Mabel.”
He introduced Fritzi to a voluptuous five-foot brunette with snapping dark eyes. Fritzi and Mabel Normand hit it off and in five minutes were chatting like old friends. Mabel cracked and ate peanuts while she told a lengthy dirty joke. As Fritzi listened with a smile, she was aware of the attention she was getting from a funny little chap with wavy dark hair and bold eyes.
Another old friend turned up in the milling crowd. Roscoe Arbuckle—Fatty, with whom she’d worked in A Merry Mix-Up. They hugged. “Here’s someone new in the outfit,” Fatty said, crooking a finger at whoever was standing behind her. It turned out to be the little fellow who’d been staring at her. Fatty introduced him as Charles Chaplin. “Our nickname for him’s English Edgar.”
“Charmed,” said English Edgar, alias Chaplin, in an accent that would have identified him anywhere in the world. He kissed Fritzi’s hand and batted his eyes. Then he tipped his derby and let it tumble brim over crown straight down his arm to his waiting hand. A show-off, but an amusing one.
Chaplin sat beside her on the grass during the showing of Fatty’s Fabulous Feast. Fatty, a pastry cook, was pursued by Sennett’s comic policemen, who mistook him for a jewel thief. Afterward, in the soft summer dark where fireflies winked, Chaplin tipped his hat once more, this time as a gesture of politeness.
“Very enjoyable meeting you, Miss Crown. I hope I have the pleasure again.”
Something made her put her index finger under her chin, curtsey, and bat her eyes. “Charmed.”
Chaplin laughed. “You’re poaching in my territory, lass.”
“Sorry. It isn’t my forte.”
“I’m not so sure,” he said as they parted.
Their paths were soon to cross again. One Saturday night in September, Fritzi felt lonely and said yes to Lily’s invitation to go to Poodles in Venice, where a colored jazz band played loud, peppy music. Not being welcome in established social circles, picture people entertained themselves with their own movable party. Every Thursday night the Hollywood Hotel rolled up its lobby rugs for dancing. Friday there was a picnic and dancing way out at Inceville, the ranch where Bison director Thomas Ince filmed his westerns. Saturdays, the party moved to Poodles, or the Ship’s Café in Hollywood. Lily was a regular on the circuit. She’d disappear with some new Lothario, then sneak him into the house in the middle of the night. The man would be gone by the time Fritzi’s alarm clock rang.
The night out lifted Fritzi’s spirits. A large glass of Crown lager furthered the process. She refused the invitation of a man with thick glasses who wanted to dance. He asked Lily, who had no such reservations.
About nine o’clock Mack walked in with Mabel, Fatty Arbuckle, Fatty’s wife, Minta, and Chaplin. As Mabel sat down and reached for the peanut bowl, Fatty saw Fritzi and waved. Chaplin came over, affecting a comic waddle that reminded Fritzi of penguins. He let his hat tumble down his sleeve, bowed.
“Dear lady. How grand to see you again. Care to step around the floor with me?”
“Yes, but please tell me what should I call you. Edgar or Charles?”
He led her by the hand. “Charlie, please.”
The tune was “Oh, Gee,” a Harry Poland foxtrot. Charlie was expert on his feet, whirling and turning Fritzi until she began to feel giddy.
“Another lager?” he asked when the music stopped. “Or would you prefer a stroll on the pier? It’s a lovely night.”
“Yes, let’s go out.”
The music of the colored band faded, overlapped by “Come Josephine in My Flying Machine” pumped out of the Ferris wheel calliope. Strung with colored lights, the wheel revolved prettily against the night sky. Rifles banged in a shooting gallery. Screams trailed out behind the hurtling cars of the Cloud Race roller coaster. On the long fishing pier, from which Mack’s comedians had already driven a cop car more than once, a balmy breeze warmed Fritzi and induced a pleasant languor. The moonlit Pacific murmured. Charlie took her hand.
“Allow me to pay you a compliment. Fatty showed me A Merry Mix-Up the other night. Very funny.”
“The leading men are funny, especially Fatty. The twin girls are just foils.”
“Granted, but you’re the one I watched. You have crisp moves. Fine timing. You deserve better comic material, something that’s well thought out.”
“What, and get hit in the face with blueberry pies all my life?” Fritzi mugged. “I keep trying to be a serious actress.”
“Nothing more serious than comedy, love. It requires precise planning and flawless execution. Ruthless concentration to achieve both of those ends.” When he saw her reaction he shrugged. “You’ve the wrong attitude, dear one. On the screen your face shines like a diamond. One can’t help watching.”
“That’s silly. I’m not pretty.”
“Pretty is common. Worth a penny or two. What you have, a kind of brightness—that’s a thousand-dollar bill.”
&nbs
p; They reached the end of the pier and leaned on the railing. The full moon, huge and yellow-white, scattered needles of light on the sea. The effect was trite as a stage drop, but beautiful.
Charlie took her hand in his and gave her a soulful look. “May I tell you something?” His lips tickled her ear as he whispered. “I find you damnably attractive. Would you come back to my hotel room?”
Her heart raced. She was flattered—sorely tempted. He couldn’t know how the proposition lifted her spirits. A respectable man found her worth looking at. Now if only Loyal Hardin would…
Stroking her hand, he whispered, “My dear?”
“Charlie, I like you a lot, truly. But not enough to—well, you understand. I hope you don’t think I’m a terrible prude.”
“If I thought that, I wouldn’t have spoken in the first place. Is there someone else, may I ask?”
Fritzi gazed at the ocean. “I hope so.”
“That’s a damned odd answer.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I hope we can still be friends.”
“Well, my pride is damaged. I shall just have to take it in stride. God knows I’ve learned how. My brother Sid and I grew up in the foulest parts of London. We went back and forth between foundling homes so fast and so often we felt like a game of lawn tennis. That kind of upbringing teaches that one can’t possibly hope for all the rewards of the world, only a few. A lesson I learned again just now. Of course we’ll be friends. I not only like you, I confess that I admire your character, though I’d much prefer to admire you in my bed.”
He smiled and batted his eyes. She laughed again. She liked this brash little fellow.
“Shall we go back?” he said. She took his arm as they walked up the pier in the moonlight. The calliope played “Over the Waves.” The pretty colored lights of the wheel revolved in the night. The Cloud Race rattled and dived.
“How pleasant it is to be out here,” she said, tasting the salty air. “I won’t forget this evening.”
“Oh, I expect most of it will slip away,” Charlie said. “We’re in a hectic business. Just don’t forget what I said about being funny.”
62. Inceville
In March 1914, Pathé premiered the first episode of a chapter play called The Perils of Pauline. Overnight, an actress named Pearl White became a star, and the serial form became the rage of Hollywood. B.B. and Hayman sniffed out other serials being rushed into production. The Exploits of Elaine. The Hazards of Helen. Dollie of the Dailies. Working together against a Kelly deadline, Eddie and Lily wrote scenarios for twelve episodes of The Adventures of Alice by April 1. Fritzi was dragooned for the title role, a spunky heiress whom a villainous relative sought to do out of her inheritance by doing her in.
She was tied to a moving buzz-saw belt, chained to a post next to a boiler soon to explode, thrown from a runaway freight train (a dummy substituted), dropped from a biplane (same), and subjected to other indignities on a shooting schedule that ran into early summer. When she remarked that all of the villain’s henchmen were Latins, Chinese, or actors in black face (and shouldn’t they balance things a little more with some white scoundrels?), Kelly put her down flatly:
“Forget it. This is a white man’s country. The audience expects a nigger or a greaser or a slope head to be the villain.” After a short but futile argument, Fritzi resigned herself, and even derived some pleasure from playing Alice, who was certainly an active and aggressive “New Woman” as opposed to a meek housebound frump.
The first episodes of the chapter play, released in June, were instant hits. B.B. held out a fresh carrot, $125 a week, and then gently beat Fritzi with a stick: one more picture with a Western background? This time with some comedy for her, Eddie’s request?
“I had a flash, gave him a swell premise, he loved it. Please?”
“Oh, no. Oh, no. B.B., you promised me strong parts, not just silly ones.”
B.B.’s mouth turned down at the corners. “All right, gel, I won’t press you. Not when you’re so negative to those who want to promote you. And we won’t worry about all our folks whose wives and little kiddies depend on the success of this company. No, we won’t. That’s it. Finis. Kaput. The end.” Ye gods. Now she had two disapproving fathers.
On a golden summer Saturday, Fritzi met her new friend Charlie for lunch at a general store across the road from Mack’s studio. They bought bologna sandwiches and sodas and retired to a trestle table in a sunny grape arbor next to the store. A tramp lay asleep in weeds nearby. A wagon loaded with broken furniture and plumbing fixtures arrived at the store. The junk dealer went inside. Charlie sniffed.
“Not exactly Mayfair or the Ritz, this neighborhood.”
Fritzi told him about refusing B.B. His reply was a terse “Good. You deserve better. Don’t surrender.”
Charlie’s costume of the day consisted of oversized shoes, baggy pants, a too-tight coat, a too-small derby, and a cane hooked over his arm. Fritzi commented on it, since she hadn’t seen it before.
“Then you’ve missed my latest pictures, dear one. One morning a while back, Sennett discovered a hole in the schedule. He gave me thirty minutes to come up with a character. I grabbed any wardrobe pieces I could find and added the mustache as a last touch.” It resembled a black toothbrush bristle. “The picture I’m working on is my third as the little tramp.”
“Have the others done well?”
“Smashingly. The average number of prints for a Keystone comedy is twenty. Thirty’s exceptional. On the second tramp picture they struck fifty, and it wasn’t enough. The exchanges are clamoring for more. I’m very pleased.”
Fritzi didn’t tell him that Liberty routinely struck at least sixty prints for a Lone Indian picture. Instead she remained mum as Charlie took a delicate bite out of his sandwich. Just then an amber butterfly settled on his sleeve. He held still, not disturbing it. He gazed at the butterfly in a wistful way.
“Is something wrong?” Fritzi asked. “Have you lost your appetite?”
He shook his head; the butterfly flew off.
“I believe Sennett’s going to fire me.”
“For heaven’s sake, why? You must be making money for him.”
“Bales of it. And he’s paying me a hundred and fifty dollars a week.” More than B.B. had offered, but then Charlie was something of a comic genius, fat ego or no. He jarred her when he added, “I’m worth a thousand.” As she stared at him, he frowned. “Money isn’t the only issue with Sennett. He has a narrow philosophy. Shoot everything in a hurry. More is better. He said I take far too long to work out a gag. I told him that’s because I want to do more imaginative things than slip on banana peels and tumble off ladders. Furthermore, I want to direct. When I informed him of that, he blanched and handed me over to his girlfriend, Mabel. Now she’s directing me.” He was shaking his head. “Never mind, it’ll sort out. My success has not gone unnoticed elsewhere,” he said with a wiggle of his eyebrows. “Say, tell me something. What is a barbecue?”
“A sort of picnic. The main course is meat roasted on a spit and slathered with sauce. Pig, usually. Why?”
“I’m invited to one tomorrow. A special party for some actor Tom Ince has engaged. They roomed together in New York when they were both on stage. Care to go? I’d welcome the company.”
Fritzi had laundry and mending waiting, and unread newspapers, and a letter to write to her mother. “Thanks, but I don’t think I should. Where is it?”
“Rather a long way. The Inceville ranch.”
Cowboys?
“I’ll go. What time?”
Charlie hired a buggy. The June afternoon was glorious. The drive to the northern reaches of Santa Monica took an hour. They went up the old king’s highway with the sunlit ocean on one side, and on the other dun-colored hills cut by canyon roads and brightened by poppies and purple heather.
Tom Ince had quickly become one of the town’s premier directors. The Miller Brothers 101 Ranch Real Wild West Show wintered in California, and Ince had struck a deal
to use Miller men and equipment in the off season. He filmed his big-scale westerns on eighteen thousand acres once part of a Spanish rancho.
They passed through an elaborate ranch gate and climbed a steep road. Grape vines splashed the hillsides pale green. Unpainted barracks with log porches sat like a row of shoe boxes on a bluff overlooking the Pacific. “Cutting and dressing rooms,” Charlie explained. “They use them for exteriors sometimes. A fort, a trading post, that sort of thing.”
“You know a lot about this place. Been here before?”
“Frequently. For their Friday night dances. Girls.” He gave an exaggerated sigh and patted his heart.
Fragrant mesquite smoke from a barbecue drifted over them as Charlie parked among similar buggies and a few shiny autos. A large crowd, perhaps two hundred, were socializing around long food tables. Paper lanterns decorated an open-air stage where a few couples were dancing to music provided by a fiddle and a squeeze box.
Charlie introduced Fritzi to Ince, a portly, genial man with dark hair and lively eyes. He in turn introduced them to his new player, a hawk-featured man named Bill Hart. “Bill’s a classy fellow,” Ince said. “Done a lot of Shakespeare.”
As shadows began to show on the eastern slopes of the surrounding hills, Fritzi and Charlie filled their plates with shredded pork, slaw and beans and German potato salad. Cattle and oxen lowed in the ranch barn. Restless mustangs trotted around a big horse corral. Near the corral stood an old stagecoach, much marked by time and weather. Behind it was a Conestoga with its hooped white top in place. They climbed up on the wagon seat with their plates.
The ranch fascinated Fritzi. Tough-looking men in cowboy clothes, men with a touch of swagger, outnumbered women two or three to one. Quite a few of the men packed pistols in holsters that looked more than ornamental.
A steady thump-thump, thump-thump began. “What’s that?” she said.
“Sioux village. Tepees are beyond that hill. The Indians live here but keep to themselves.”