Tell-All

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    This prattle, further example of what Walter Winchell means by the term “toast-masturbating.” Or “laud mouthing,” according to Hedda Hopper . According to Louella Parsons , “implying gilt.”
    Turning his head to one side, the senator looks off stage right, saying, “She visits our drab world like an angel from some future age, where fear and stupidity have been vanquished.…”
    The camera follows his eye line to reveal Miss Kathie and myself standing in the wings, her violet eyes fixed on the senator’s spotlighted figure. Him in his black tuxedo. Her in a white gown, one elbow bent to crush a pale hand to her heart. Cue the lighting change, bring down the key light, boost the fill light to isolate Miss Kathie in the wings. Block the scene with the senator as a groom, standing before a congregation, taking his vows prior to giving her some tin trophy painted gold in lieu of a wedding ring.
    It’s no wonder such bright lights seem invariably surrounded by the dried husks of so many suicidal insects.
    “As a woman, she radiates charm and compassion,” says the senator, his voice echoing about the hall. “As a person, she proves an eternal marvel.” With each word, he climbs to her status, fusing himself to her name recognition and laying claim to the enormous dowry of her fame in his upcoming bid for reelection.
    Upstage, the vast luminous face of my Miss Kathie hovers on-screen in the role of Mrs. Claude Monet , painting his famous water lilies. Her perfect complexion care of Lilly Daché . Her lips, Pierre Phillipe .
    “She is the mother we wish we’d had. The wife we dream of finding. The woman whom all others measure themselves against,” the senator says, shining and polishing Miss Kathie’simage before the moment of her appearance. Before he presents her to this audience of the faithful. This stranger she’s never met, coaxing her fans to a low-key frenzy of anticipation before she joins him in the spotlight.
    More “projectile praise” and “force fawning” or “compliment vomit,” in the eyes of Cholly Knickerbocker .
    Everything sounds so much better when it comes out of a man’s mouth.
    Clasped in my hands, a screenplay rolled tight, here is the only prospect for work my Miss Kathie has been offered in months. A horror flick about an aged voodoo priestess creating an army of zombies to take over the world. At the finale, the female lead is dismembered, screaming, and eaten by wild monkeys. Lynn Fontanne and Irene Dunne have already passed on this project.
    That trophy held by the senator, it will never shine as bright as it shines at this moment before it’s received, while this object is still beyond Miss Kathie’s grasp. From this distance apart, the senator and she both look so perfect, as if each offers the other some complete bliss. Senator Phelps Russell Warner , he’s the stranger who would become her sixth “was-band.” Himself a prize that seems worth the effort to dust and polish over the remainder of her lifetime.
    Every coronation contains elements of farce. You must be a toothless, aged lion, indeed, before this many people will risk petting you. All of these tin-plate copies of Kenneth Tynan , trying to insist their opinions count for anything. Ridiculous clockwork copies of George Bernard Shaw and Alexander Woollcott . These failed actors and writers, a mob that’s never created worthwhile art, they’re now offering to carry the train of Miss Kathie’s gown, hoping to hitch a ride with her to immortality.
    Using a strong eye light, go to a medium close-up shot of Miss Kathie’s face, her reaction, as the senator’s off-camera voice says, “This woman offered the best of an era. She blazed paths where none had braved to venture. To her alone belong such memorable roles as Mrs. Count Dracula and Mrs. President Andrew Jackson.… ”
    Behind him play scenes from
The
Gene Krupa
Story
and
The Legend of
Genghis Khan . Miss Katie, filmed in black and white, kisses Bing Crosby on a penthouse terrace overlooking a beautiful panoramic matte painting of the Manhattan skyline.
    In the spotlight, the senator’s florid, naked forehead shines as bright as the award. He stands tall, with wide shoulders tapering to his patent-leather shoes. A pink-flesh facsimile of the Academy Award . Above and behind his ears, the remainder of his hair retreats as if hiding from the crowd’s attention. It’s pathetic how easily a strong spotlight can wipe away any trace of a