← Selected Shorts
Selected Shorts
Selected Shorts Goes to the Movies with the Tribeca Film Festival
00:58:37
Host Meg Wolitzer presents three works that crossed the boundaries between fiction and film for our collaboration with this prestigious New York film Festival. An eerie game has unexpected consequences in Richard Matheson’s “Button, Button,” performed by Marin Ireland. Michael Stuhlbarg gives a rousing performance of Lewis Carroll’s “Jabberwocky;” and Andrea Martin reads the story that inspired the Hollywood classic All About Eve—Mary Orr’s “The Wisdom of Eve.”
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Narrator/Story Reader
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- [01:05]
Meg Wolitzer
Film buffs and fiction fans rejoice on this selected Shorts stories that have been adapted for the screen, including All About Eve, the Twilight Zone and Alice in Wonderland. I'm Meg Wolitzer, pop some popcorn and gather round for movies on the radio. You're listening to Selected Shorts where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction, one short story at a time. We at Selected Shorts love movies. Film and fiction are both storytelling media, of course, with plenty of heroes and quests and life lessons, and each discipline is inspired, inspired by the other. Movies provide fiction writers with all kinds of fodder, and fiction activates the imaginations of filmmakers. I've been fortunate to have my novels adapted for the screen. The first film Nora Ephron ever directed, this Is My Life, was based on my novel, but I never fantasize about the possible movie versions of my books. When I'm writing, I don't picture actors, nor do I even see the faces of the characters. Instead, I sort of see a blurry version. The features may be slightly distorted, but I could still pick those people out in a crowd of literary characters. And you know how often in films, characters from different books get together. So yes, like all of you, we love film. But wow. If you want to talk about not only love of film, but commitment to sharing and showcasing the medium, look no further than the Tribeca film festival. Since 2003, Robert De Niro, Jane Rosenthal and Craig Hatkoff's annual celebration has brought countless new movies and new artists to our attention and conversations, expositions and much more to those of us lucky enough to live in New York City. And this week, each of you listening can be a part of the Tribeca Festival, too. Selected shorts recently teamed up with the festival, bringing famous stories that have been adapted into film and to a packed house at our home theater of Symphony Space. Later in the hour we'll hear the story that inspired the Bette Davis classic All About Eve. But let's start our exploration with Button Button, a story that was Adapted into a 1985 episode of the Twilight Zone and a film called the Box. It was written by Richard Matheson, whose titles include the Shrinking man, and his work is very adaptable. His novel I Am Legend has made it to the screen not once or twice, but three times. Performing this Matheson story is the very talented, very busy Marin Ireland. She has appeared in recent series including Sneaky Pete and films including the Boogeyman. Listen closely for the twist and the audience's powerful reaction right at the story's finish. And now Marin Ireland performs Richard Matheson's Button Button.
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Narrator/Host
Button Button. The package was lying by the front door, a cube shaped carton sealed with tape, their name and address printed by hand. Mr. And Mrs. Arthur Lewis, 217 East 37th Street, New York, NY 10016. Norma picked it up, unlocked the door, and went into the apartment. It was just getting dark. After she put the lamb chops in the broiler, she sat down to open the package. Inside the carton was a push button unit fastened to a small wooden box. A glass dome covered the button. Norma tried to lift it off, but it was locked in place. She turned the unit over and saw a folded piece of paper Scotch taped to the bottom of the box, and she pulled it off. Mr. Steward will call on you at 8 o' clock p.m. norma put the button unit beside her on the couch. She reread the typed note, smiling. A few moments later she went back into the kitchen to make the salad. The doorbell rang at 8:00'. Clock. I'll get it, norma called from the kitchen. Arthur was in the living room reading. There was a small man in the hallway. He removed his hat as Norma opened the door. Mrs. Lewis? He inquired politely. Yes? I'm Mr. Steward. Oh, yes. Norma repressed a smile. She was sure now it was a sales pitch. May I come in? Asked Mr. Steward. I'm rather busy, norma said. I'll get you your whatchamacallit, though. She started to turn. Don't you want to know what it is? Norma turned back. Mr. Steward's tone had been offensive. No I don't think so, she replied. It could prove very valuable, he told her. Monetarily? She challenged. Mr. Steward nodded. Monetarily, he said. Norma frowned. She didn't like his attitude. What are you trying to sell? She asked. I'm not selling anything, he answered. Arthur came out of the living room. Something wrong? Mr. Stewart introduced himself. Oh, the Arthur pointed toward the living room and smiled. What is that gadget, anyway? It won't take long to explain, replied Mr. Steward. May I come in? If you're selling something, Arthur said. Mr. Steward shook his head. I'm not. Arthur looked up at normal. Up to you, she said. He hesitated. Well, why not? He said. They went into the living room and Mr. Steward sat in Norma's chair. He reached into an inside coat pocket and withdrew a small sealed envelope. Inside here is a key to the bell unit dome, he said. He set the envelope on the chairside table. The bell is connected to our office. What's it for? Asked Arthur. If you push the button, Mr. Steward told him, somewhere in the world someone you don't know will die. In return for which you will receive a payment of $50,000. Norma stared at the small man. He was smiling. What are you talking about? Arthur asked him. Mr. Stewart looked surprised. But I've just explained, he said. Is this a practical joke? Asked Arthur. Not at all. The offer is completely genuine. You aren't making sense, arthur said. You expect us to believe Whom do you represent? Demanded Norma. Mr. Stewart looked embarrassed. I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to tell you that, he said. However, I assure you the organization is of international scope. I think you'd better leave, Arthur said, standing. Mr. Steward rose. Of course. And take your button unit with you. Are you sure you wouldn't care to think about it for a day or so? Arthur picked up the button unit and the envelope and thrust them into Mr. Steward's hands. He walked into the hall and pulled open the door. I'll leave my card, said Mr. Steward. He placed it on the table by the door. When he was gone, Arthur tore it in half and tossed the pieces on the table. Norma was still sitting on the sofa. What do you think it was? She asked. I don't care to know, he answered. She tried to smile but couldn't. Aren't you curious at all? No. He shook his head. After Arthur returned to his book, Norma went back to the kitchen and finished washing the dishes. Why won't you talk about it? Norma asked. Arthur's eyes shifted as he brushed his teeth. He looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Doesn't it intrigue you? It offends me, arthur said. I know, but. Norma rolled another curler in her hair. Doesn't it intrigue you, too? You think it's a practical joke? She asked as they went into the bedroom. If it is, it's a sick one. Norma sat on her bed and took off her slippers. Maybe it's some kind of psychological research. Arthur shrugged. Could be. Maybe some eccentric millionaire is doing it. Maybe. Wouldn't you like to know? Arthur shook his head. Why? Because it's immoral, he told her. Norma slid beneath the covers. Well, I think it's intriguing, she said. Arthur turned off the lamp and leaned over to kiss her. Good night, he said. Good night. She patted his back. Norma closed her eyes. $50,000, she thought. In the morning, as she left the apartment, Norma saw the card halves on the table. Impulsively, she dropped them into her purse. She locked the front door and joined Arthur in the elevator. While she was on her coffee break, she took the card halves from her purse and held the torn edges together. Only Mr. Steward's name and telephone number were printed on the card. After lunch, she took the card halves from her purse again and scotch taped the edges together. Why am I doing this? She thought. Just before five, she dialed the number. Good afternoon, said Mr. Stewart's voice. Norma almost hung up but restrained herself. She cleared her throat. This is Mrs. Lewis, she said. Yes, Mrs. Lewis. Mr. Steward sounded pleased. I'm curious. That's natural, Mr. Steward said. Not that I believe a word of what you told us. Oh, it's quite authentic, Mr. Stewart answered. Well, whatever. Norma swallowed. When you said someone in the world would die, what did you mean exactly? That, he answered. It could be anyone. All we guarantee is that you don't know them. And of course, that you wouldn't have to watch them die for $50,000, Norma said. That is correct. She made a scoffing sound. That's crazy. Nonetheless, that is the proposition, Mr. Steward said. Would you like me to return the button unit? Norma stiffened. Certainly not. She hung up angrily. The package was lying by the front door. Norma saw it as she left the elevator. Well, of all the nerve, she thought. She glared at the carton as she unlocked the door. I just won't take it in, she thought. She went inside and started dinner. Later she went into the front hall. Opening the door, she picked up the package and carried it into the kitchen. Leaving it on the table, she sat in the living room looking out the window. After a while she went back into the kitchen to turn the cutlets in the broiler. She put the package in a bottom cabinet. She'd throw it out in the morning. Maybe some eccentric millionaire is playing games with people, she said. Arthur looked up from his dinner. I don't understand you. What does that mean? Let it go, he told her. Norma ate in silence. Suddenly she put her fork down. Suppose it's a genuine offer, she said. Arthur stared at her. Suppose it's a genuine offer. Offer. All right. Suppose it is. He looked incredulous. What would you like to do? Get the button back and push it. Murder someone? Norma looked disgusted. Murder? How would you define it if you don't even know the person? Norma said. Arthur looked astounded. Are you saying what I think you are? If it's some old peasant 10,000 miles away, how about a baby boy in Pennsylvania? Arthur countered. Some beautiful little girl on the next block? Now you're loading things. The point is, Norma, he continued, what's the difference whom you kill? It's still murder. The point is, norma broke in, if it's someone you've never seen in your life and never will see, someone whose death you don't even have to know about, you still wouldn't push the button. Arthur stared at her, appalled. You mean you would? $50,000. Arthur. What has the amount $50,000. Arthur, Norma interrupted. A chance to take that trip to Europe we've always talked about. Norma, No. A chance to buy that cottage on the island. Normal.
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Narrator/Story Reader
No.
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Narrator/Host
His face was white. She shuddered. All right, take it easy, she said. Why are you getting so upset? It's only talk. After dinner, Arthur went into the living room. Before he left the table, he said, I'd rather not discuss it anymore, if you don't mind. Norma shrugged. Fine with me. She got up earlier than usual to make pancakes, eggs, and bacon for Arthur's breakfast. What's the occasion? He asked with a smile. No occasion. Norma looked offended. I wanted to do it, that's all. Good, he said. I'm glad you did. She refilled his cup. Wanted to show you I'm not. She shrugged. Not what Selfish Did I say you were? Well. She gestured vaguely. Last night Arthur didn't speak. All that talk about the button, Norma said, I think you, well, misunderstood me. In what way? His voice was guarded. I think you felt. She gestured again, that I was only thinking of myself. Oh, I wasn't, Norma. Well, I wasn't when I talked about Europe. A cottage on the island. Norma, why are we getting so involved in this? I'm not involved at all. She drew in a shaking breath. I'm simply trying to indicate that. What? That I'd like for us to go to Europe. Like for us to have a cottage on the island. Like for us to have a nicer apartment, nicer furniture, nicer clothes, a car. Like for us. Us to finally have a baby, for that matter. Norma. We will, he said when he stared at her in dismay. Norma, when are you he seemed to draw back slightly. Are you really saying I'm saying that they're probably doing it for some research project. She cut him off. That they want to know what average people would do under such a circumstance. That they're just saying someone would die in order to study reactions, see if there'd be guilt, anxiety, whatever. You don't think they'd kill somebody, do you? Arthur didn't answer. She saw his hands trembling. After a while he got up and left. When he'd gone to work, Norma remained at the table, staring into her coffee. I'm going to be late, she thought. She shrugged. What difference did it make? She should be home anyway, not working in an office While she was stacking dishes. She turned abruptly, dried her hands, and took the package from the bottom cabinet. Opening it, she set the button unit on the table. She stared at it for a long time before taking the key from its envelope and removing the glass dome. She stared at the button. How ridiculous, she thought, all this furor over a meaningless button. Reaching out, she pressed it down. For us, she thought angrily. She shuddered. Was it happening? A chill of horror swept across her. In a moment it had passed. She made a contemptuous noise. Ridiculous, she thought, to get so worked up over nothing. She threw the button unit, dome, and key into the wastebasket and hurried to dress for work. She had just turned over the supper stakes when the telephone rang. She picked up the receiver. Hello, Mrs. Lewis? Yes, this is the Lenox Hill Hospital. She felt unreal as the voice informed her of the subway accident, the shoving crowd Arthur pushed from the platform in front of the train. She was conscious of shaking her head but couldn't stop. As she hung up. She remembered Arthur's life insurance policy for $25,000 with double indemnity for no. She couldn't seem to breathe. She struggled to her feet and walked into the kitchen numbly. Something cold pressed at her skull as she removed the button unit from the wastebasket. There were no nails or screws visible. She couldn't see how it was put together. Abruptly she began to smash it on the sink edge, pounding it harder and harder until the wood split. She pulled the sides apart, cutting her fingers without noticing. There were no transistors in the in the box, no wires or tubes. The box was empty. She whirled with a gasp as the telephone rang. Stumbling into the living room, she picked up the receiver. Mrs. Lewis? Mr. Stewart asked. It wasn't her voice, shrieking, so it couldn't be. You said I wouldn't know the one that died. My dear lady, Mr. Steward said, do you really think you knew your husband?
- [20:07]
Meg Wolitzer
That was Marin, Ireland, with Richard Matheson's story. Button, Button. Ah, that finish. Did you hear the live audience gasp? It's less of a twist than a twist of the knife. Anyway, I'm sure you can see why that story would be ripe for adaptation.
- [20:23]
Narrator/Story Reader
If you push the button, two things will happen.
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Actor/Performer
First, someone, somewhere in the world whom
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Narrator/Story Reader
you don't know will die.
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Actor/Performer
Second, you will receive a payment of $1 million.
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Narrator/Host
Are you for real?
- [20:48]
Meg Wolitzer
The mysterious box with a button in it? It's such a clear image in my mind, and I've never even seen the movie the Box. I plan to see it if it's streaming. If only I can figure out the buttons on my remote. Our next piece has played a part in many films, at least peripherally. It's by Lewis Carroll, whose Alice's Adventures in Wonderland seems to be endlessly adaptable. The poem we're about to hear is Jabberwocky, a fun excerpt from Carroll's sequel, Alice through the Looking Glass. The actor performing Jabberwocky is Michael Stuhlbarg, who plays gentle souls as he did in A Simple man, just as well as he does Maniacal Men, as he does in the series, you, Honor. Here he does his playful best with Lewis Carroll's Jabberwocky.
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Actor/Performer
Jabberwocky. Twas brillig and the slithy toves deep did gyre and gimbo in the wabe. O mimsy were the burrow groves and the mome rats outgrabe. Beware the jabberwock, my son. The jaws that bite, the claws that catch. Beware the jubjub bird and sun, the frumious bander snatch he took his vorpal sword in hand long time the manxome foe he sought. So rested he by the tum tum tree and stood awhile in thought, and as in uffish thought he stood. The jabberwock with eyes of flame came whiffling through the talgee wood and burbled as it came. One, two, one, two, and through and through the vorpal blade went snickersnack he left it dead, and with its head he went galumphing back. And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy. O frabjous day. Calloo callais. He chortled in his joy. Twas brilligation and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe Old mimsy, where the burrow grows and the mome rats outgrabe.
- [24:04]
Meg Wolitzer
That was Michael Stuhlbarg reading Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll. My father would occasionally recite lines from Jabberwocky because I think it was a poem he had to memorize for school. And the invented phrases and words stayed with me too, because once you hear them, they just stick and they need to be said in this really special reading out loud voice right as if every word is in italics. My personal favorite is Frumius, though I hope you never feel frum when thinking about our show. When we return, a story that became all about Bette Davis. I'm Meg Wolitzer. You're listening to selected shorts recorded live in performance at Symphony Space in New York City and at other venues nationwide.
- [24:47]
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- [26:23]
Meg Wolitzer
Welcome back. This is Selected Shorts where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction. One short story at a time. I'm Meg Wolitzer. In this show, we're hearing stories so compelling they inspired films. Our final story is the Wisdom of Eve, a classic by actor and writer Mary Orr. Fans of old Hollywood might already sense that yes, in fact this story inspired the famous Bette Davis movie All About Eve. And though Orr didn't receive screen credit, we certainly want to do our part to make the connection. In addition to being an actress, Oher was the author of five novels including Diamonds in the sky and Lucky Star. Still, this is her most well known story. Reading this piece is the very funny Andrea Martin. She's an Emmy and Tony winning actor who is well remembered for films such as My Big Fat Greek Wedding and series including Only Murders in the Building. And she's a writer. Her memoir, Lady Parts came out in 2014. Now Andrea Martin brings us Mary Orr's the Wisdom of Eve.
- [27:38]
Narrator/Story Reader
The Wisdom of Eve, a young girl, is on her way to Hollywood with a contract for $1,000 a week from a major film company. In her pocketbook. I shall call her Eve Harrington because that is not her name, though the Eve part of the alias is not unapt considering the original snaky activities in a once peaceful garden period. In a year or two, I am sure Ms. Harrington will be as much a household word to you as Ingrid Bergman or or Joan Fontaine when she is a star. I am equally positive that the slick publicity agents of Hollywood who surround these celestial beings with glamour will give you their version of her success. But no matter what they concoct, it will not be as interesting or ironic as her real story. It would never occur to them to tell you the truth. Stars must be presented to their public in a warm, sympathetic light, and one could scratch a long time before kindling any such spark from the personality of Eve Harrington. I first saw her on a cold, snowy night in January. I was sitting snugly under a fur rug in the backseat of Margola Cranston's town car. We were parked at the stage entrance of a Margolis theater which, waiting for her to come out. By we, I mean her chauffeur, Henry and I. Henry sat patiently in front of me, displaying the proper fortitude of one whose chief occupation in life is to wait. But marking time is not. My long suit and my gloved fingers played an irritating tattoo on Margola's polychrome upholstery. I am an actress myself and am able to get in and out of my makeup with the same speed that I duck in and out of a col cold shower. Not so Margola. Rarely did she leave the theater before a quarter to 12. What went on in her dressing room for three quarters of an hour was a mystery known only to her maid Alice and herself. Consequently, if one wanted to see Margola after the theater, one waited. However, it was not a lone vigil. There was a crowd at the stage door. They were the usual autograph fans, all with little books open and fountain pens dripping ink. I could hear their enthusiastic comments through the tiny opening where I lowered the car window to let my cigarette smoke out. A few were boys in uniform with dreams of dating Margola, dreams that would not come true. There was only one person standing there I could not catalog. She stood nearest the car, and I could see her face clearly in the light of the street lamp. It was a young, unusual face, but not in the least pretty. Because she was rather plain. The amount of makeup she was wearing seemed to me very odd. What I mean is, false eyelashes can look very much at home on Lana Turner, but the same pair could be incongruous on a sculpture schoolteacher. She was dressed in a warm, practical red coat. Her hands were thrust in her pockets and a shabby purse dangled from her left arm. Her manner was shy and reticent. Under their long lashes her eyes stared at the ground. She stood first on one foot, then on the other to keep warm, but displayed no fatigue at the long wait. I continued to wonder who she was and why she was there until Margola finally appeared at the stage entrance. I had seen her come out many times. It was a superb act. I knew perfectly well she was not in the least surprised to see the crowd gathered, but her expression was one of delighted amazement. So many people there to see her, it could not be. She smiled and signed the autograph books and spoke, spoke first to one and then to another. Oh, she radiated graciousness. Everyone would go away claiming, what charm. So modest. How kind. Margola would then climb into the car and apologize for keeping me waiting by saying, those tiresome people. Such bores. What fools. I was one of Margola's few women friends. My husband, Lloyd Richards, had written the play in which she was then appearing with great success. No one knew better than he that a large part of his success was due to Margola's performance, for there was no doubt that Margola was truly a great actress. We got along together from the first day we met. I often disagreed with her, argued with her, and wisecracked at her expense. Sometimes Lloyd would look worse and tell me not to go too far, to remember that I owed my penthouse and sables largely to her. However, in spite of my acid tongue, to this day she has preferred my company to most other women's. On the night in question we were heading home, and home to Margola is a nest of 40 rooms at Great Neck, Long island, called Capulet's Cottage. That meant I had to stay all night for the first there would be a huge supper and then conversation until 3 or 4 in the morning, as Margola loves to talk by the light of the moon. Consequently, my overnight bag rested uncomfortably on my feet. Lloyd had kissed me goodbye when I'd left for the theater and gone off with a gleam in his eye to a stag poker session. Have a nice cat party, had been his parting words, and and I knew that he was privately relieved we were not having a foursome with Margola's husband, Clement Howell. Clement is a clever enough director and producer, and very English, very pompous. Margola was close to the car when the shabby little girl with the red coat suddenly stepped into her line of vision. I saw Margola's eyes cloud up and her expression change to one of annoyance. The girl spoke a few words and looked at her in the most supplicating way. Her large eyes filled with tears, but she didn't succeed in melting the star's icy attitude. I couldn't hear what Margolis said to her exactly, but I knew it wasn't nice, and I did catch the last phrase, which was, I don't want you pestering me every night. With that she climbed into the car and slammed the door. Get going, Henry, she commanded, and sank back into the corner like a sulky child. Well, I said in my most sarcastic tone, I thought you were always so charming to your public. What's the matter with little Miss Redcoat? Is she selling something? Margola glared at me. You don't know what I've been through with that girl. You can't imagine what she said and done to me. How she lied to me and made a fool fool of me. Now, Margola, don't be so dramatic. What could a poor girl like that do to you? It's a long story. Besides, I get in a rage every time I think about it. I lit a cigarette and handed it to her. Come on, you'll have to tell me now. We've got a long drive ahead and nothing to do but talk. She inhaled deeply. Her name is Eve Harrington translated its spells well. She is the most awful girl I've ever met. There are no lengths to which she won't go. Start at the beginning, I urged. Not with the third act. How did you happen to meet this paragon of all the virtues? It was Clement's fault. Margola sighed. After a moment's pause, he first drew my attention to her. He asked me if I'd ever noticed the question girl that stood at the stage entrance and simply watched me come out. She didn't ask for an autograph or a picture or try to speak to me. She just stood there and looked. I said that I hadn't. He said she always wore a red coat and to be sure to give a look next time. She was wearing a red coat tonight, I interrupted. I know. She flicked my remark aside impatiently. Well, the next time I went into the theater for a matinee, it was I saw her. She was there when the afternoon performance was over. I saw her again when I came back after dinner, and when the evening performance was over, she was still there. This time when I got rid of the crowd, I spoke to her. I asked if there was anything I could do for her and she said no. I said I had noticed her at the matinee and that my husband had seen her before. She said she stood, stood there every night. I couldn't believe my ears. I said, well, what do you want? She said, nothing. I said, there must be something. And finally she said that she knew if she stood there long enough, eventually I would speak to her. I asked if that was all she wanted, and she said yes, that she had first seen me in San Francisco when I toured in have a Heart. She followed me to Los Angeles and eventually come on to New York. Just to stand at your stage door? I asked, amazed. She went to the play as often as she could afford to. What devotion, I said. That, said Margola sadly, is what I assumed. I was most impressed, I thought, this is my most ardent fan. She follows me clear across the great divide. She sees my plays constantly. When she obviously has very little money. She stands night after night at my stage door just to see me come out and finally have me speak to her. I was moved. So what went on? I urged. Well, margola answered. I felt that I had to do something to repay this child for her admiration. She was only 22. I thought, I'll give her an evening she'll always remember. So I invited her to come home with me. She acted as if she were in seventh heaven. She had a Slight accent, which told me she was Norwegian. That her people had come over here six or seven years before and had left her with an aunt and gone back to Norway. Of course, because of the war they hadn't been able to return and she hadn't heard from them in months. In the meantime, she had married a young American flyer and had been living in San Francisco because he had gone from the Pacific from there. I asked her how she got along and she said at the first she had her husband's allotment, but then he had been killed over Bougainville, and since then she had lived very meagerly on his insurance. How sad. Exactly what I thought Margolis said. Ch she told me that seeing me act and watching my plays had been her only happiness since she'd had the wire about her husband. It seemed to me that I must do something for her. Well, I found out that she could type and do shorthand. She had worked as a secretary in San Francisco. It suddenly came to me that this girl might just be the secretary for me. You know I'm hard to please. But here was someone who adored me, who would be loyal, who was quiet and at the same time well bred. She spoke English beautifully and seemed intelligent. So I asked her if she'd like to work for me. You've never seen such a response. She burst into tears and kissed my hand. I generally hate that sort of thing because I know it's insincere. But this time I was sure it was genuine. She was so naive, so unsubtle. The way you read that line suggests she wasn't. Don't jump cues, Margola snapped. And for my impatience, I had to wait three or four puffs on her cigarette. Well, I gave the wretched girl clothes to wear. I gave her $25. All she had to do was tend to my correspondence, send out pictures and so forth. Some letters she was to answer without bothering me, but anything that she felt needed my particular attention she was to show to me. At first she was ideal. Then after a month or so, she began to annoy me. How? I couldn't help asking. By staring at me. She stared at me all the time. I would turn around suddenly and catch her eyes on me. It gave me the creeps. Finally, I couldn't stand it any longer. I suddenly realized that she was studying me, imitating my gestures, my ways of speech, almost doing the same things. It was like having a living shadow. At last I told Clement that he should use the girl at the office, that she could Attend to my mail there instead of did of at home. I wanted to get her out of the house and at the same time I didn't want to fire her. I felt sorry for her. Besides, her work was very satisfactory. Clement was delighted with her. She began to read plays for us and made some quite intelligent observations. Then one day we had a rehearsal. It was when we were putting Ms. Caswell into the sister part and I had a toothache and I didn't go. My understudy hadn't been called and the stage manager wasn't able to get in touch with her. Eve had gone to the rehearsal with Clement to take his notes, and when there wasn't anybody to do my part, she volunteered. Clement told the stage manager to give her the script so she could read it, and to his amazement, she said, oh, I don't need that. Well, my dear. Margola leaned closer to me as the car spun around a corner. Would you believe it? She knew every line of my part. Not only every line, but every inflection, every gesture. Clement was there to watch Ms. Caswell, and he said he forgot all about her. He was so fascinated by Eve's unexpected performance. Was she really that good? Good? Margola raised a pencil eyebrow. Good? She was marvelous. Clement even hinted she was slightly better than I am. He said that if he closed his eyes, he wouldn't have known the difference. What about the Norwegian accent? Apparently Margolis shrugged. That just went. I understand why now. Anyway, Clement was so amazed at the girl's exhibition that he took her out to tea afterward. She confessed that she had always wanted to be an actress and asked him to help her. Ask him, not me. Don't you think that was hatefully deceitful? She told him that she'd only stood around my stage door because she wanted to meet him, that she considered him the most brilliant director and producer in New York. Clem was very flattered. He told me she was the most talented young girl he had ever seen in years, that we must help her. I said nothing. I knew how to handle this very carefully. I asked Eve why she hadn't told me she wanted to be an actress and asked me to help her. She had the nerve to tell me she knew I wouldn't like the competition. I laughed out loud. It was ridiculous. Even the best actors in a supporting cast have a tendency to melt into the scene. When Margola gets into her stride, she doesn't lack ego. I chuckled. Ego? Margola stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray. Wait till I Tell you about the letter. It arrived several days after this rehearsal. Eve came to my dressing room before the performance with four or five letters. This particular one was among them. She told me she thought I ought to give them my personal attention. I put them into my purse, took them home, forgot about them. Several days later, Eve asked if I'd read them, and I said I hadn't. I hate reading mail. In a few days, she was nagging me again to know if I'd read the letters. I still hadn't. That night, Alice told me that Ms. Harrington had come to my dressing room while I was on stage. And had gone through my pockets and my purse looking for something. I didn't like that. And after the show, I called Eve down for it. She said she was looking for those letters. That there was one that, on second thought, she felt I ought not to see. I said that as she had given me the letter in the first place. It was a little absurd to decide now that I shouldn't see it. But whether I'd read the letters or not. She was never again to go through my things. She burst into tears and cried that she only wanted to spare me pain. I had been so kind to her. She didn't want my feelings hurt. She'd only given me the letter because when she had first read it, she had been so thrilled. She wanted me to see it. Thinking it over, she realized that it might hurt me. I remarked that after the things critics had written about me. Nothing in any letter could possibly faze me. I realize now that this entire performance was one to get me to read that letter without any more delay. And I'm sorry to say it worked. That night, when I got home, it was the first thing I did. It went something like. Dear Ms. Cranston. Today I was buying a ticket to see a performance of your play. The door to the theater was open, and as I could hear voices and no one was watching the door. I wandered inside to see what was going on. It seemed to be a rehearsal. A young girl was playing the part. That I recognized. When I saw the actual performance as your role. I presume she was your understudy. I know that stars of your caliber. Are always jealous of the ability of young people. But, my dear Ms. Cranston, I put you above such petty feelings. I am sure that loving the theater as you do. You will wish to enrich it in your company. Hidden backstage is the most brilliant young performer I have ever seen. I was spellbound. She brought all your ability plus youth to the part. I Waited outside for this young girl and asked her name. It was Harrington. Do help her to get the break she so richly deserves. It was signed one of your devoted followers. Well, of course, she wrote it herself, I guess. I think so, margola said. I was positive, but it was type one, so I couldn't prove it. The next day I merely said to Eve that it was quite a coincidence that the theater door was ajar when she happened to be rehearsing my part. We never mentioned it again. I resisted comment. I could sense Margola was working up to a big scene. Not long after this, the John Bishop auditions came up. I nodded. John Bishop is one of Broadway's better producers. Every season he holds auditions where talented unknowns can come to a scene of their own choosing on the stage of his theater. The judges are other producers, talent scouts from film companies and agents. The winner often steps right into a Broadway show. Well, darling, margola went on. Eve was crazy to participate in Johnny's auditions. She went to Clem and pleaded with him to give her an introduction. He said it wasn't necessary, that she merely had to fill in the application in Johnny's office. When her turn came, she would be called. She found that to be true, and from then on she was no use as a secretary at all. She was in a complete dither about what scene to do and wanted Clement to advise and coach her. I told her to do a scene from A Kiss for Cinderella, as I felt she was rather the pathetic, wistful type. But Clem picked out a bit of Ibsen Hilda in the Master Builder because it would suit her Scandinavian accent. She naturally took Clement's advice, not mine. She studied the scene, and when she had memorized it, Clement heard her go through it. He came home and enthralled. He insisted that I come down to the theater and give her some suggestions. By this time I was so curious I consented. One day before the matinee, I went to the theater early and she did the scene for me. Was she really terrific? I asked. I was impressed, Margola admitted reluctantly. She was talented, there was no question about that. She had a marvelous voice and she read the lines with great sincerity, though this didn't disguise the fact that she was utterly inexperienced and awkward. I did what I could to help her hide these defects and showed her a few other little tricks, and she picked them up quickly enough. I wasn't as excited as Clement, but I could see that there was something to his statements. The auditions took place over a few. She got down to the finals and then on the big day won them. Everybody was terribly excited about her movie. Scouts knocked themselves out to make tests of her. Agents wanted to put her on her their files. She thought she was made. She was a star overnight. So now the story would come out. What story? Her story. Her true story. Pathetic, wistful, naive. Eve Harrington gave an introduction interview to the newspapers on how she had fooled the finest actress in the theater for several months. Fooled you how? In every way. Her entire story was a piece of fiction. She'd never been any closer to San Francisco than Milwaukee, where she was born. She was Norwegian by descent, but had picked up her accent from a waitress in her father's restaurant. Why did she want an accent? Glamour, my dear. So many foreign actresses are successful here. But the parents being trapped by the war in Norway. What was the point of that? I asked. Sympathy. The husband was a plea in the same direction. You mean she wasn't a widow? She'd never been married. My God. The entire plot was a masterpiece of detail. Margola went on, enjoying my amazement. In Milwaukee, she had been a secretary with stage ambitions. She saved enough to come to New York and live for six months. Once here, she laid a careful campaign to get ahead in the theater. She made up her mind to become acquainted with Clem and me. I think her ideas went even further. I believe she planned to break up our marriage. Being married to a big producer director would just suit Eve. She once made a remark to me that every important actress in the theater had a successful man behind her. That part hadn't gelled, but the rest had worked pretty well. As Clem's secretary, she had met most of the big agents, playwrights and important actors. That interview was the loudest crowing I ever read. The funny part was how I had fallen for that stuff about being my great fan. I could have strangled her. Naturally, she didn't want to be fired. She resigned as Clem's secretary, told him he couldn't be tied down to an office anymore. She began to dress in clothes and costumes that would be noticed. And she began to wear makeup in quantity because the report on most of her screen tests was no sex appeal. Why is she still standing on your stage door? I asked. I don't understand. That's where we had the last laugh, said Margola brightly. The only thing happened that she hadn't bargained for. You know what Broadway's like. One day you're the toast of the town, the next you're forgotten. She was too inexperienced to have learned that real and lasting success is built only on long term foundation. She thought she was all set and it went to her head. She took a few more screen tests but didn't photograph well enough to be sensational. And Hollywood doesn't bother to experiment with lights and makeup unless you have a real hit behind you. She was an odd type, certainly not the conventional ingenue, and no part turned up for her. Pretty soon the agents and producers just forgot about her. She couldn't even get in to see John Bishop himself, and she was his official protege. That's when she came crying back to Clem and me. She says she'll stand at the stage door every night until I forgive her, that she was a silly fool when she gave out that interview, that she really did adore me, and at first her only thought had been to get to know me, that she'll be everlastingly grateful if we will only help her to get apart. But I don't fall into the same trap twice, said Margola determinedly. So far as I'm concerned, she can stand at that entrance until she turns into a statue. I shan't lift a finger to help her. It's rather a pity, I said, since you say she really is talented. So what? Margola said. Lots of girls are talented. Never get a chance to show it. She had a chance. She muffed it by her own conceit. She'll never have another opportunity. Probably not. I sighed and stared through the car window at the reflected stars twinkling like footlights in Little Neck Bay. No, I thought to myself, the girl with her red coat will probably spend the rest of her life in obscurity. But I was wrong, and so was Margola. Eve Harrington had that rare second chance. I cursed the day that she got it, for Margola was right. Eve was a bitch, I know, for it was through me that opportunity knocked twice on her door. Several weeks after Margola told me the story, Lloyd finished his new play and a prominent manager made immediate plans to produce it. It was a strange play, different from anything Lloyd had written before, and very hard to cast. There was one part which presented a real dilemma. It required a young, emotional actress of great strength and power. At the same time, it wasn't large enough for a star, having only three scenes. Lloyd and the manager tried actress after actress, and no one was right. He wanted a certain timid quality that was apparently unobtainable from the sensation synthetic blondes of Broadway. I knew where he could find it. I knew the perfect Girl was standing at Margola's stage door. I'd never forgotten the shy expression in Eve Harrington's wide eyes. Finally, when in desperation the manager was about to call the production off, I suggested her to Lloyd. Go round there, I suggested. She always wears a red coat. You can't miss her. If you wash the makeup off her face, you'll have exactly the right type. Furthermore, I hear she can really act. Lloyd thought I was kidding, but finally he did. As I told Eve read the part the next day and they gave it to her. The search was over all. At the rehearsals, Lloyd and the director carefully coached Eve to hide her awkwardness. Lloyd began taking her out to look lunch, to talk about the past. On the opening night, she walked off for the show. It was a hit, and I had to admit it was partly her performance. Her notices were amazing. The movies got excited about her all over again, this time with success behind her. Her tests were a different story. What had once struck Hollywood as a lack of sex appeal now was called a rare quality.
- [56:58]
Narrator/Host
Quality.
- [57:01]
Narrator/Story Reader
So Eve is on the train with a contract in her pocket. I'm going on a trip. Also, I'm heading for Reno to get a divorce. For in spite of her success, Eve had found the time to get engaged to a famous playwright. She's going to marry my husband, Lloyd Richards. Thank you.
- [57:37]
Meg Wolitzer
That was Andrea Martin performing Mary Orr's story, the Wisdom of Eve. Okay, I have to say here that my High School musical was Applause, which starred Lauren Bacall on Broadway and was based on the movie All About Eve. I played the best friend, Karen Richards, and my real life best friend, Lisa played the Margola character, who in the movie and the musical was called Margot Channing. And our Syosset high school version was clearly the definitive one. Ask anyone. And now, as they say in the biz, we fade to black. Here's hoping this hour linked a favorite film to the literature that inspired it. Or that it made you curious to seek out that visual adaptation if you've never seen it. The art of translation is tricky, it's true. But when you've got incredible source material, you've got more than a head start.
- [58:28]
Narrator/Host
I'm going to bed. Need any help?
- [58:33]
Narrator/Story Reader
Put me to bed.
- [58:34]
Narrator/Host
Take my clothes off, hold my head, tuck me in, turn out the lights and tiptoe up. Eve would, wouldn't you, Eve? If you'd like. I wouldn't like.
- [58:50]
Meg Wolitzer
I'm Meg Wolitzer. Our thanks to the Tribeca Festival and our thanks to you for joining us on this edition of Selected Shorts. Selected Shorts is produced by Jennifer Brennan and Sarah Montague. Our team includes Matthew Love, Drew Richardson, Mary Shimkin, Vivienne Woodward, and Magdalene Robleski. The readings are recorded by Myles B. Smith. Our programs, presented at the Getty center in Los Angeles are recorded by Phil Richards. Our mix engineer for this episode was Joe Plourd. Our theme music is David Peterson's that's the Deal, performed by the Deardorf Petersen Group. Selected Shorts is supported by the Dungannon Foundation. This program is also made possible with public funds from the New York State Council on the Arts with the support of Governor Kathy Hochul and the New York State Legislature. Selected Shorts is produced and distributed by Symphony Space. Hey, if you've ever wanted to do Selected Shorts in your own home, I have a suggestion. I have a novel coming out for kids and since kids do like to be read too, maybe you could read aloud to them from this book. I co wrote it with my son Charlie Panick and it's one of those scavenger hunt books with a lot of really cool clues in it. Clip great for ages 7 to 11. That's found sound. Read it aloud. Let your kid read it. Let your grandkid read it. Let adults read it. Whatever.
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Meg Wolitzer
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