Kid Hollywood

KID HOLLYWOOD

by Moss Hall

My career as a kid movie actor began on a high note and gradually slid into the dumper. My mother had signed me up with the Central Casting Agency shortly after my birth, and at the age of six months I was signed to play the baby son of a major A List actress in a film directed by William Wellman.

The film tanked. So there I was, washed up at the age of one.

But this didn’t stop Mom. Central Casting continued to call and I appeared in some 30 more flicks over the next ten years. I hated it. Being dragged out of bed before dawn, racing across town as the sun came up, breakfast sloshing around in my queasy little tummy, only to be dumped into the makeup department where something called “pancake” was smeared on my face, then into “Costume” to be jammed into an ill-fitting set of smelly rags so that I could be thrust onto a “set” and watch old men focus lights for three hours.

Most of those films had me running around in the background, rolling a hoop or riding a bike. But a few years after I learned how to talk I actually got a line of dialogue in a movie. This was great because it paid double and you only had to work half a day.

The film was a sequel to a film about a famous O. Henry character – a safecracker who is on the lam but trying to go straight.

My big scene is etched on my brain cells like major trauma. The scene had me playing the friend of a kid who was arguing with his big sister. The kid wanted to go shoot arrows with me, but she wouldn’t let him. They fight, and on a cue I was to say, “Aw gee, Bonny!”

Seemed simple enough. The Director called “Action!” and these two young “professional actors” began the scene, emoting their little ears off. I watched, fascinated. I had never been this close to “actors” before and I was amazed by how loudly they spoke. That didn’t seem realistic. Suddenly there was a pause. Nothing happened. Both of them stopped speaking and froze. It was my turn and I had blown it.

“Cut!” the Director cried. “Let’s try it again, kids. Son, what is your line?”

“Oh, I know it, sir!” I simpered. “I just got confused. ‘Aw gee, Bonny.’”

“Let’s do it again. Quiet. Roll sound. Camera. Slate it. Action!”

This time the kids acted like mad and when my cue came up I mumbled, very softly, “Aw, gee, Bonny.”

“Cut! Son, we couldn’t hear you. Speak up and speak as if you mean it! Let’s try another.”

On the next take, I really got into it. I stood there “reacting” to every word that was said. To watch me, you’d think that the other kid was being condemned to death by electrocution. I agonized. I shifted my eyes back and forth. I almost cried. When my cue came, I shouted my line in a loud and supremely tragic tone.

“AW! GEE! BONNY!”

There was a terrifying pause on the set. They were obviously overcome by emotion. I would be given more lines now, I was sure.

“Cut. Oh my God. Too much, sonny. Once more, but just SAY it clearly, okay?”

This time, everything worked perfectly. I challenged Bonny, the Director said, “Okay, print it. Next setup.” And my speaking career in films ended.

But my brilliant movie career was not over. By the age of 11, I had become a sophisticated “extra” and background person, wise enough to direct myself in a scene if the Assistant Director didn’t.

This is exactly what happened on an Arabian Nights type film that I was called in for. They dressed me in a filmy costume and a turban. They used dark pancake on my face to make me look like an Arab kid. My job was to join the other extras in wandering around the outdoor set, a bazaar (built indoors on a sound stage), and make it look busy.

Since no one gave me specific directions, I made up my own. I decided to follow a certain route until the scene ended. I crossed the set, looking intent on something, exited through an archway, snuck behind the set and came back through a doorway, crossed the set in the other direction, stopped, thought better of it, exited through a door, snuck behind the set again and came out through another archway, headed in a different direction.

In later years, when I was editing film myself, I often wondered what the editors of those scenes must have thought. Maybe it went something like…

“Okay, Larry, we’ll cut it here and go to the three-shot.”

“Right. Just about where that skinny kid in the turban exits through the archway.”

“Good. I want about two beats after he gets off screen, then we’ll go to the next shot.”

“Okay, here we go. We’ll take it to right here…”

“Wait a minute. What’s that skinny kid doing coming through that doorway?”

“I don’t know, chief.”

“We cut it there and we got him leaving through the archway then reappearing immediately through a doorway on the other side of the set.”

“Jeez. That don’t work.”

“Hell, he’s way in the background. Who’s going to know? Let’s do it.”

“Okay, but I don’t like it. Next, we cut to the principals with the street in the background, the dialogue scene. Here it is…”

“Wait a minute. It’s the skinny kid again. He’s back in the scene! How did he do that? He just walked off…now what’s he doing? Good God…he’s thinking! Now he’s going back the way he came… No! He’s going right into Maria’s house! Who in hell directed the extras on this shoot!”

At the age of twelve I discovered girls and baseball, in that order. Mom and I both agreed that it was time to retire, before it was too late.

But I did not retire from “Show Business” entirely. Oh, no. There was always “Theater” to help destroy.

Thus I found myself playing the part of a gnome in a Kiddie Show at the Wilshire Ebell Theater. I was 12. I was waiting in the wings with my friend Snout when it happened. It went something like this:

ME: Hey, Snout! Do you itch?

SNOUT: Like crazy. (points to hump) Under here!

We try to scratch each other. Suddenly, I look up, in terror.

“That’s our cue!” I croak, heading for the stage.

SNOUT: No! It ain’t yet! COME BACK!”

I enter the stage -- into the wrong scene. The Pixies are doing their dance. Their eyes widen in panic, but they continue dancing. I shout: “We are the gnomes!” There is no response from the Pixies. Angry, I turn upstage and shout at them. “I said: ‘We are the gnomes! We rule Twinky Winky Land!’”

The Pixies continue their dance, casting the death-ray of their lit4tle eyes at me. It is obvious now that I have entered too soon. But I am determined to carry it off. I imitate the Pixie dance and try to blend into the line. An annoyed Pixie shoves me toward the wings, arousing giggles from the audience.

I push the rebel Pixie back and steal her place in line. But the line fans away, leaving me alone. I dance toward a cardboard tree and get behind it. But it moves away, too.

Not to be denied my moment of glory. I jump into the head of the line and move to center stage. The Pixies back away from me, bowing and gesturing. It seems that I have won. I shout: “Yes! The gnomes are here, and I am one of them. My home is here and you all better leave. Or else!”

But look out! Down from the flies, riding a cardboard star, comes the Queen Pixie, She is behind me so I don’t see her, but she is furious. She beans me with her wand. I take the wand from her and tear her star into pieces. The Queen’s face crumbles into silent weeping and she does a Frankenstein walk off stage.

Yes! I am in charge.! I command: “Gnomes! Get your butts out here!”

I proceed to lead them in a gnomic soft shoe routine. The Pianist picks it up. The audience cheers as rocks, trees, and clouds move in unison. We kids are killing them. The audience cheers and applauds…(or so it seems, remembering.)

Other, greater triumphs will be ahead. Won’t they?