Film Fatale
Not one, but TWO film festivals were held in Dallas, and the battle scenes weren't all on the screen.
DURING THE FIRST TWO WEEKS of April I saw over 40 movies. Although I had always considered myself a dedicated moviegoer, those two weeks were less a labor of love than of endurance. Watching movies, after the 24th or 25th one, just isn't fun anymore. My sleep became tense and fitful; my meals, sticky inconveniences; my stomach, argumentative. My self-image changed in the space of two short weeks from a sassy, temperamental magazine writer to a furtive creep. I am deeply grateful the whole thing is over.
I was originally motivated to see these films by simple curiosity. For the past two years Dallas had played host to a production called the USA Film Festival. Its purpose was to exhibit and honor the best of current American films; to bring to Dallas legions of stars, starlets, directors, producers, screen writers and any other celebrities who would come; and generally to promote an interest in American cinema. This year the USA Festival was to be held again, but it would follow the United States Film Festival, whose aims, purposes, and format were so similar as to be almost identical. What such a glut of American exposed celluloid would mean for Texas, for Dallas, or, indeed, for me, I had no idea.
I arrived in Dallas in time to get settled in a motel and change clothes before going to a party held at an expensive high-rise on Turtle Creek. The party was both a benefit for the United States Film Festival and a reception for Vincente Minelli whose work (An American in Paris, Lust For Life, Home From the Hill, Gigi) would be honored at the US Festival. Walking through the apartment's well-lighted lot, I saw seated in a red MG a man in a brown leather coat talking with a young woman in white gloves.
As I came within earshot, she asked him, in amazement, "But how many keepers have you had?"
It was with great difficulty that I kept my steps from slowing noticeably down.
"Three," the man said.
"Only three?"
"Three today."
"Three today and you started at noon?"
I have no explanation for any of this. Nothing I heard in any of the 40 movies was as intriguing. Neither the woman nor the man came to the party.
It turned out to be a sedate affair attended mostly by the press (always eager for free food and more eager still for free drinks), by the organizers of the festival and their friends, and by a few people who had paid $25 to help support the festival and meet Minelli. There might have been more paying customers except, as I learned later, the rivalry between the two festivals was intense. The rivalry extended to the film capitals of New York and Los Angeles and deep within the labyrinth of money and power in Dallas. Most of the patrons of the arts in Dallas favored the USA Festival which would follow next week.
Minelli, though not completely the center of attention, became visible from time to time as he escaped from one encircling group only to be quickly surrounded by another. He is a short, dapper gentleman, very unassuming and softspoken, who looks a little like, of all people, Don Knotts. The comparison should not be carried too far, however. One of Minelli's wives was, of course, Judy Garland; another, Denise, has remarried and is currently reigning queen of San Francisco society; and he is presently engaged to Mrs. Lee Anderson, an exceptionally elegant woman from Los Angeles. Whether from a hard life or from natural inclination that the years have done nothing to change, Minelli's face is very sad with large eyes like dark pools and slack, drooping cheeks. He seldom spoke at length, never spoke personally. He met each new acquaintance, both at the reception and during the rest of the week, with the same partially extended hand, jerky nod and shy smile. The photograph in the festival program shows him with head bowed and eyes closed, monk-like.
The only incongruous element about Minelli was his tie, a silky pure yellow, whose significance would not be clear until later.
The rest of the partygoers were dressed in that peculiar combination of high fashion and faded, second-hand chic typical of people from the worlds of art and money. The editor of the Iconoclast, Dallas' underground weekly, working against the trend, had hunted through the depths of a stuffed closet to drag out the one suit he owned. "Thought I'd surprise 'em," he said while the rest paraded in everything from jeans and cracked, crusty leather jackets to jewel-studded gowns and rich, dark suits.
Shortly before midnight the festival's organizers left to distribute handbills to the people waiting in line at the various Saturday night midnight movies around Dallas. These notices said that anyone who arrived at the Municipal Auditorium Theater before 10 a.m. the next morning could attend the festival's first day for free.
It seemed doubtful, even at the time, that many late movie addicts would bounce out of bed early enough to make it downtown by ten. But the weather added its own discouragement by turning sour during the night. When I arrived, the grey auditorium buildings looked particularly dank. Inside, a few people, their arms folded and shoulders hunched against the chill, milled about in a dark, gymnasium-sized lobby. Minelli's Meet Me in St. Louis began to play. When it ended, I counted 61 persons who had braved cold and rain and Sunday morning lethargy to watch free movies.
The discussion with Minelli after Meet Me in St. Louis proved as dispiriting as the weather. He had changed his yellow tie for a white turtleneck. He sat on the stage in front of the screen, legs crossed, smoking a cigarette, and responded to questions in a voice so soft and shy that it was difficult to hear even though he spoke into a microphone. Several people wanted to ask about Judy Garland (who had starred in the film), but Minelli's sense of privacy and decorum, unaggressive as it was, managed to dominate the group. Instead there would be a question like "Who was your cameraman on this film?" and Minelli would offer a name in answer. The questioner would nod appreciatively. Then silence. The seconds ticked by before another question: "What was your budget on this film?"
In the lobby of the theater, the organizers of the festival, their eyes slightly glazed from the night before, gazed joylessly at the meager crowd that wandered back into the lobby after Minelli's discussion was over. Robert Alexander, vice-president and secretary of The Moving Image Association, which sponsored this festival, shook his head sadly. "I would come to free movies," he said. He reached for a package of Kools within the pocket of his plaid suit. He is a thin, dark-bearded, light-skinned, and rather ascetic looking man. Moments before, two of his three young children had been playing hide-and-seek between his legs; but now, sensing his preoccupation, they had run off somewhere into the dark stretches of the theater's endless, chilly lobby.
"Of course, the USA Festival didn't have any better attendance on the first afternoon three years ago. We'll pick up as the week goes along."
Some friends of the festival burst into the scene wanting to know if Alexander had the keys to the rented limousine. Minelli was waiting to be taken to his hotel. Jennifer Salt and Margot Kidder, two players in a film to be shown that afternoon, needed to be picked up somewhere; the person who knew exactly where couldn't be found just then. Other notables were arriving at the airport and had to be met.
"We'll use the limousine for Minelli," someone said.
"Why does he need the limousine? He drives around Hollywood in a beat up VW."
"No, Minelli gets the limousine. Use my car to pick up the people at the airport."
"But I was supposed to be the one to get Margot."
"Well then get her, dammit."
"In your car?"
This confusion over logistics would last throughout the week. Celebrities were left stranded at the airport. Both the limousine and private vehicles disappeared for long periods of time. There never seemed to be enough drivers and automobiles even when only one or two guests of the festival needed shepherding.
After the confusion was straightened out, Alexander craned his neck to see if he could spot his vanished children. His bow tie, once carefully tied and straightened, had begun to droop slightly. He shrugged and smiled at Kit Carson who was climbing a broad flight of stairs toward the projection booth.
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