wee willie
winkie (USA 1937, (dir) john ford)
starring
shirley temple
child star
an autobiography. shirley temple black
pages
175/176
reffering to a scene where my stage mother,
june lang, verbally threatens to box my ears for trampling her
petunias and falling into a mud puddle, zanuck sent cryptic words
that the action was "not strong enough." a responce to
this dictum was being debated between ford and associate producer
gene markey as mother knitted nearby. her needles suddenly
stopped clicking. "why don`t you get her spanked?" she
asked. "spanked!" blurted markey, examining mother as
if she wore horns. "the screen`s greatest box-office magnet?
the public wouldn`t stand for it!" markey`s credentials on
feminine discipline should have been impeccable, based on
successive marriages to three highly spirited actresses, joan
bennett, hedy lamarr, and myrna loy. "nonsense," mother
answered. "every child gets spanked." she resumed her
knitting. "even i`ve spanked shirley." to spank me
loomed as so important a decision, it was bucked back for
zanuck`s confirmation, thereby spreading the blame for any
negative result. "spank her," zanuck responded. sweet
and winsome in her ruffled lace collar and black string tie, lang
surely realised some jeapordy to her career, as well as to my
bottom. "i won`t," she said firmly. from behind his
dark glasses ford fixed her with a long balefull stare, pipe
clenched motionless at the down- turned corner of his mouth. now
he had another problem. only i knew the impasse was unnecessary,
well aware where my insesitivity was located. "sure, spank
me," i said brightly. "please miss lang. it`ll be
fun!" lang was stuck, pressured from all sides, so up i
crawled over her knees and clung white-knuckled to the chair arm.
in slow motion she raised her hand and landed a soft slap just
where my nightdress began to flare. i puckered up sorrowfully,
but ford had stopped the cameras. "june, dear," his
tone was sarcastic. "are you dusting her off? your wrist was
as limp as if you were waving good-bye. let`s try it again!"
this time lang came slapping down with authority, twelve times in
a row. i counted aloud, "...six...seven, ouch!...ten,
eleven, twelve, ouch!" the camera stopped, so i turned and
looked up. she was staring dejectedly at her open palm.
"don`t feel bad," i said reassuringly. "i feel
fine." looking toward ford, i whispered, "bet her hand
stings." grinning, he tipped up his tinted glasses. his eyes
looked watery and sentimental, a hopefull sign of progress.