The Early Ayn Rand

"Well, Miss Roberts," he yawned, "we do not make a practice of it, but we could..." he yawned, "... use you someday, let you try, when..." he yawned, "... oh, dear me!... when we have a very big crowd of extras. Leave your name and phone number with my secretary. Can't promise anything. Come and remind us — next week..."

When a month had passed, Claire Nash had heard "Next week" four times each from six studios; from three others she heard nothing — their casting directors did not interview beginners; from the last one there was nothing to hear — its casting director was away on a trip to Europe to scout for new screen talent.

* * *

His eyes fixed, thoughtful, more troubled than he cared to show, Winston Ayers watched the shooting of the first scenes. Work on Child of Danger, his story, had begun. He was watching — with an emotion which made him angry and which he could not control — the camera and that which stood before the camera. For before the camera stood an old fortress wall, a mighty giant of huge, rough stones; and on the wall was Queen Lani.

Queen Lani was the heroine of his story, a wild, sparkling, fantastic creature, queen of a barbarous people in the age of legends; a cruel, lawless, laughing little tyrant who crushed nations under her bare feet. He had seen her vaguely, uncertainly in his dreams. And now she was here, before him, more alive, more strange, more tempting than he had ever imagined her, more "Queen Lani" than the Queen Lani of his script. He looked at her, stricken, motionless.

Her hair flying in the wind, her slim body wrapped only in a bright, shimmering shawl, her naked legs, arms, and shoulders hard as bronze, her huge eyes glittering with menace and laughter, Heddy Leland sat on the rocks of the wall, under the eyes of the cameras, a reckless, wild, incredible, dazzling queen looking down at her limitless dominions.

There was a dead silence on the set. Werner von Halz, the scornful, aristocratic imported director, bit his megaphone in a frenzy of admiration.

"Dat," pronounced Mr. von Halz, pointing a fat finger at the girl, "dat iss de virst real actress I efer vork vit!"

Mr. Hamburger nodded, mopped his forehead, dropped his handkerchief, forgot to pick it up, nodded again, and whispered to the silent man beside him:

"Some find, eh, Mr. Ayers?"

"I... I didn't know... I didn't expect..." Winston Ayers stammered, without tearing his eyes from the girl.

When the scene was over, he approached her as she stepped off the wall.

"It was splendid," he said, tensely, harshly, as if grudgingly, his eyes dark between half-closed, insulting eyelids.

"Thank you, Mr. Ayers," she answered; her voice was polite and meaningless; she turned abruptly and walked away.

"I want," Mr. Bamburger was shouting, "I want articles in all the fan magazines! I want interviews and I want them syndicated! I want photos — where's that fool Miller, has he been sleeping? — photos in bathing suits and without bathing suits! Wonder-Pictures' new discovery! Discovery, hell! Wonder-Pictures' new gold mine!"

Claire Nash struggled, wept, wrote letters, wasted nickels in phone booths, fought for and obtained an interview at Central Casting.

She sat — trembling and stammering, unable to control her part any longer and the part running away with her — before the desk of a thin, gentle, pitiless woman who looked like a missionary. Central Casting ruled the destinies of thousands of extras; it flung opportunities and ten-dollar-a-day calls by the hundreds each single day. Wasn't there, Claire begged with an indignation merging into tears, wasn't there room for one more?

The woman behind the desk shook her head.

"I am sorry, Miss Roberts," she said precisely and efficiently, "but we do not register beginners- We have thousands of experienced people who have spent years in the business and who are starving. We cannot find enough work for them. We are trying to cut our lists in every way possible, not augment them with novices."

"But I... I..." stammered Claire, "I want to be an actress! I may have a great talent... I... God! I know I have a great talent!"

"Very possible," said the woman sweetly and shatteringly. "But so say ten thousand others. It is very ill advised, Miss Roberts, for a lovely, inexperienced young girl like you to be thinking of this hard, heartbreaking business. Very ill advised-... Of course," she added, as Claire rose brusquely, "of course, if your situation is... well, difficult, we can suggest an organization which undertakes to provide the fare back home for worthy girls who..."

Claire forgot her part for the moment; she did a thing which no beginner would have dared to do: she rushed out and slammed the door behind her.