"The Great Hollywood Invasion" - Part Four

 

Part Four

            By the time Starla returned to Archie’s ship, Tiffany had brought her TARDIS aboard. There was a series of cables slithering out from the TARDIS all the way to another part of Archie’s ship, presumably its core. Starla didn’t dare try to figure out the science of it all—she left that field of expertise to her Time Lord friend.

            Tiffany was bouncing back and forth between ships when she stopped to greet Starla. She had removed the suit jacket of her 1951 attire and rolled up the sleeves of her white blouse, allowing her more mobility to work. “You O.K., luv?” she asked Starla.

            Starla must have looked more downtrodden than she felt from her task of reuniting Bobby with Betty. “I’m good,” she told Tiffany. “I’ll feel even better once we’ve gotten away from this town…and this time period.”

            Sensing her growing impatience, Tiffany comforted her friend with a gentle rub up and down her left arm.

            Putting her own misery aside, Starla asked, “How’s our new lil’ friend holdin’ up?” She, of course, spoke concerning Scoop. “I sure feel terrible about hitting a dead end with his grandparents.”

            “The poor thing’s down, but he’s not out,” Tiffany said.

            “The lil’ fella is determined…and brave,” Starla noted with admiration. She then switched the topic to their other new friend: “And what about Arch? How are we gonna convince anyone in 1951 Hollywood to give a real alien a film role?”

            Tiffany was ecstatic that she asked. “I was thinkin’ of that while you were gone, and I remembered the one man in Hollywood who thought outside the box better than any other visionary in Hollywood—a man who was no stranger to the strange.”

            Starla’s eyes twinkled. “We’re going to Steven Spielberg?!” She was already thrilled at the idea of meeting the young filmmaking icon.

            “No, no, luv,” Tiffany said. “Steven’s only 5 years old at this time. We’d be lucky to hold his lil’ attention long enough!”

            Starla huffed with disappointment. “Alright, then…who?”

            Tiffany smiled widely. “Orson Welles.”

— — — — — — — —

            At 26 years old, Orson Welles made one of the most celebrated films in Hollywood, Citizen Kane. That was in 1941—Cecil B. DeMille was 60 years old at the time, having already established himself as an experienced filmmaker and even actor in both silent and sound films.

            Now, ten years later, DeMille was coming into one of his most ambitious projects that had yet to be announced—a sound remake of his 1923 silent film, The Ten Commandments.

            And Welles?

            Well, poor Orson was currently groveling at DeMille’s feet on the Paramount Pictures studio lot. It had been a few years since he had even set foot in Hollywood, after disastrous reception of his adaptation of Macbeth in 1948. Not the one to let failure define his work, Orson was now moving on to another Shakespeare story—Othello—which he was filming in Italy and Morocco. However, production had been high…too high for Orson’s finances, leaving him bankrupt.

            “I need something, Cecil,” he pleaded to the famed director. “You’ve got to have something for me—a role in your next film, perhaps?”

            Cecil shook his head, chuckling. “My next film is nearly finished filming. Any role I could offer you is out of the question, I’m afraid.”

            “But you are still filming,” Welles indicated. “Perhaps you can squeeze me in for a cameo? It’s set at a circus, right? I can be a circus manager.”

            “I already have a circus manager: Heston.”

            This caught Orson by surprise. “You got Chuck in your film? Boy, I can’t compete with that. I’ve been hoping one day to work with him myself.”

            Cecil offered him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Son, I’m sorry you wasted a trip all this way. But, maybe I can invite you to lunch to discuss other prospects for future productions?”

            “I won’t have much of a future if Othello hits another delay,” Orson fretted. “I’ve already had two!”

            “Orson, I’ve always admired your ambition…But it’s fine to be realistic with your visions now and then.”

            Welles sullenly mulled over this bit of advice. “Thanks, Cecil.”

            “You sure you don’t want to take me up on that lunch?”

            Orson turned him down with a gentle shake of his head. He then shook DeMille’s hand, sending the respected filmmaker on his way out in a 1950 Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith, chauffeured by a distinguished negro limo driver whose name Orson remembered to be ‘Timothy.’

            “Have a good day, Mr. Welles,” Timothy tipped his chauffeur hat.

            “You as well, Tim,” Orson returned with a heavy sigh. Right now, Timothy was doing a heck a lot better than he was. Even a chauffeur’s pay would’ve helped fund his doomed project, but not even Orson Welles would stoop so low. After Macbeth, he swore off ever working in Hollywood again. Only the revolting stench of desperation brought him back…to no avail.

            He was about to leave the studio lot, putting his fedora back on, until he was suddenly approached. “Mr. Welles!” a voice called to him. At first, he believed it to be Judy Garland, as it sounded so much like her. Maybe Judy can help me, he thought hopefully. But, as he turned to face the woman, he was met with disappointment to see that it was just a negro woman—a rather beautiful one—accompanied by a gum-chewing Caucasian girl in a polka-dotted dress, barely out of her teens.

            Orson looked each of them over once before he asked, “May I help you, ladies?”

            “Actually, Mr. Welles, I believe it’s us that can help you,” the negro woman said with the energy of a salesman. “We have the opportunity of a lifetime waiting just for you!”

            Welles scoffed. “A rather cliché sales pitch, my dear. Who are you?”

            Right on cue, the negro woman presented him with a card. “Name’s Tiffany Curtsinger,” she said. “Executive of a very independent studio that’s willing to pay millions to a famous revolutionary like yourself for another sci-fi thriller…this time on film.”

            Orson caught the War of the Worlds acknowledgment in her pitch.

            Much as he appreciated the effort, he didn’t buy a single word of it.

            “Ladies, I’m not one to be scammed so easily,” he told them. “Word of advice: consider an actual fake business card instead of a blank piece of paper.” He handed the print-less piece of parchment back to the negro woman, who was a bit amused by how he wasn’t fooled by it.

            “It was just a test, Mr. Welles—and you passed!” she improvised. “It proves that even a man with a genius intellect like yours can be immune to foolhardy papers like this!” She pocketed it thereafter.

            “Why should I even entertain whatever it is you’re selling, dear girl?” Orson questioned Tiffany. “For all I know, you and your young associate could be commie spies.”

            “We ain’t commies, bustah!” retorted the negro woman’s associate, who carried a mousey Boston accent.

            Tiffany calmed her. “It’s alright, Starla. He meant nothin’ by it.”

            “But I do mean to call security and have you arrested if you don’t cease in your con,” Welles forewarned. And he left it at that as he climbed into his Lincoln Continental and drove away.

            Watching him leave, Starla moaned. “So much for that idea,” she lightened up on her Boston accent. “Now what?”

            Tiffany smirked determinedly, dropping her American accent as she told Starla, “Now we move on to more drastic measures.”

— — — — — — —

            After the failures of the day—and the odd encounter that followed at the studio lot, Orson needed to get home and get some rest. Perhaps Lady Luck would be on my side tomorrow, he thought, though he still kept his hopes in reserve. Unfortunately, the current day’s misfortunes didn’t seem to be finished with him yet, as his Lincoln suddenly shut down while driving along Sunset Boulevard.

            “What in the blazes…?!” He exclaimed, feeling grateful that he wasn’t moving down a steep hill when it happened. The vehicle stopped on its own on a flat stretch of road.

            Orson just about had it with this day.

            He cursed under his breath, not wishing to wake any of his renowned neighbors as he got out to check the engine. That was when he was suddenly illuminated by a beam of light shining from somewhere high up in the sky. Initially, Orson believed it to be a helicopter, but he didn’t hear any engines or rotors.

            Things got a lot stranger when Orson felt all of his weight lifted off the ground. He was twenty feet up high when he realized it, being pulled directly toward the light above. As he got closer to the source, he couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw it—an honest-to-God UFO. He was engulfed by the light one second and standing aboard a real alien spacecraft the next.

            “Dear lord,” he muttered, taking in his surroundings in absolute terror.

            “You’re here!” He heard a voice yell out, making Orson jump out of his shoes. He spun around to see something that he never thought in his wildest dreams he would ever see: an alien. This one wore human clothes, like a Hawaiian shirt. It stood so close to Orson that he could see himself reflected in its large, black, oval eyes.

            “I’m a huge fan of your work, Mr. Welles!” It shook his hand. Orson shivered from its cold, scaly grip. The alien’s hand was twice the size of his own. “I’ve watched Citizen Kane forty times in one day!”

            “F-Forty?!” Orson stammered, still trying to grasp the bizarre situation. “A-Are…Are y-you going to…k-kill me?”

            “On the contrary, Orson,” he heard a different voice address him. It was an Englishwoman, yet Orson detected he had heard her voice recently…albeit with an American accent. He was surprised to see the negro woman from the lot, along with her young associate, there inside the UFO.

            “You two!” Welles bellowed, rage overtaking fear. “What is the meaning of all this?!”

            “First and foremost, Orson, allow us to apologize for scaring you,” Tiffany said. “We’re not commie spies.”

            “That’s pretty obvious now!” Orson thundered. “I presume you two ladies are also extraterrestrials?”

            “Actually, I’m human…Tiff is the alien,” said Starla, whose Boston accent wasn’t as thick as it had sounded to Orson’s ears earlier at the studio lot.

            “Preferably, I’m a humanoid,” Tiffany elaborated.

            “And I’m annoyed!” Orson barked. “I demand to be put back on Earth this instant!”

            Tiffany shook her head. “I’m afraid I can’t do that just yet, Orson. I made a promise to Archie that I’d help him make a break into Hollywood.”

            “And who is ‘Archie’?!” Orson asked.

            “That’d be me, sir!” the bug-eyed alien raised his hand.

            Knowing the full story, Orson now regarded the alien with amusement. “This creature wants to be a Hollywood star?!” He exploded with laughter, much to Archie’s discouragement and the chagrin of Starla and Tiffany. “You must be joking! His appearance alone would cause widespread panic across the entire world! How on earth do you intend to help him fulfill such an unrealistic dream?”

            “By having you direct an extremely low-budget alien invasion film—starring you, Archie, Starla, me, and this lil’ fella here…” Orson noticed a small negro child in overalls walk into the room, joining Tiffany’s side. He assumed the child was her son, another humanoid alien.

            “This is utterly ridiculous,” Orson scoffed. “I’m a thespian filmmaker now. I’ve moved on from campy science fiction after War of the Worlds. I’m a man of culture—I direct Oscars, not drive-in features!”

            “Mr. Welles, think of the money,” Starla urged. “Putting a legit alien in your movie would make you a fortune! We could sell out every venue, not just the drive-in market!”

            Tiffany smiled proudly at Starla. It was a genius approach to appeal to Orson’s wallet, especially at this low point in the screen legend’s career. She glanced over at Orson, who was enticed, to say the least. He recalled what DeMille advised him back at Paramount. It’s fine to be realistic with your visions now and then.

            He couldn’t think of anything more realistic than the film he and his new collaborators were going to make.