Dear Cary - Dyan Cannon [35]
So I went to meet Jerry Wald on the 20th Century Fox lot. I stepped into his office and looked into a room that was as long as a bowling alley. Way down at the end was an enormous desk, behind which sat Jerry Wald. The desk was so large that at first all I could see was the dome of his bald, round head. It seemed like a quarter mile from the door to his desk.
He looked up at me and, apropos of nothing I could see, suddenly exclaimed, “Explosions! Guns! Cannons! Excitement!”
I thought he was talking to someone else. I looked around, but there were only the two of us.
“What’s your name, kid?” he asked.
“Diane Friesen.”
“No!”
“Uh, no?”
“Diane Cannon!”
“Diane Cannon?”
“Boom! Pow! Bang!”
“Oh,” I said, meaning, “Oy.”
“No more Diane Free-free-whatever! Now you’re Diane Cannon! And you’re going to be a star!”
“Thank you.” It was hard to know what else to say.
“Oscar, it’s happening. I’m going to be in the movies. It’s real now, so I’m going to resign.”
“Did you get the part?”
“My screen test is Thursday! The movie’s called Harlow. It’s for the role of Jean Harlow.”
“You can have Thursday off. But you can’t quit. Not yet. Don’t make a fur coat before you kill the bear, Diane.”
Dear, sweet, fatherly Oscar. I knew he was rooting for me, and his quiet admonition of caution was given with the best intention. I decided to humor him.
Jack Hopkins was as cool as sorbet when he assured me that Jerry Wald would see the same “star quality” in me that he did, but he was positively giddy with joy that his prophecy had been fulfilled. “You’re going to do swell, Diane,” he said, patting my hand as we sat in the sitting room awaiting the screen test. I think he was more nervous than I was.
“I hope so,” I replied, just as someone called out the name “Diane Cannon,” which went in one ear and out the other, until Jack nudged me. Oh yeah. Diane Cannon. Boom! Pow! Kerblooey! I liked it, once I got used to it.
“Sydney’s just about ready for you,” said a young woman about my age. She led me into the makeup department, where there were three barber-style chairs aligned in a neat row in front of a floor-to-ceiling mirror. The one chair that was occupied suddenly spun around and I realized that I was looking right at Elizabeth Taylor, who was every inch the goddess that she appeared to be on-screen. She stood up, thanked the makeup artist, then beamed the most gorgeous smile right at me. She was breathtaking.
The makeup artist introduced himself as Sydney Guilaroff. The name meant nothing to me at the moment, but I was about to be made over by one of the top studio makeup magicians of the past half century.
“Let’s have some fun,” he said, studying me rather like a mechanic appraising the lines of a classic car. “Just a little accent here and there. You don’t need a lot of help.”
A half hour later, I felt transformed, and that boosted my confidence as I launched into my screen test. For it, I was given a scene from The Long, Hot Summer, which had starred Joanne Woodward and Paul Newman. When I was done, the crew applauded. I came away from it feeling like it had gone brilliantly, and so, apparently, did the director. “You were born to do this!” he gushed. As I floated away, I indulged myself in the fantasy of the large and luxurious dressing room I would have on the lot.
“Oscar!”
“Yes, you can have Friday off.”
“I wasn’t going to ask for Friday off.”
“I know.”
“Oscar, this is it. I—”
“Call me after the meeting with the studio boys.”
“How did you know?”
“I’m bringing the ice,” Oscar said, running a letter opener through an envelope.
“To what?”
“To the party.”
“Oh.” The party had been hatched all of ten minutes ago by my roommates, who threw caution to the wind and planned a raucous celebration on the very day of my screen test, and Oscar was already invited! It would begin at three P.M., the idea being for it to be in full tilt by the time I got back from the meeting to discuss my role in Harlow.
“Oscar, seriously, I’m so grateful for all of your