Myra-Breckinridge-Gore-Vidal

against that leaden horizon marked by oil derricks, I shallbehold--like some fantastic palace of dreams--the IrvingThalberg Memorial Building and its attendant sound stageswhose blank (but oh so evocative!) faes I have studied inphotographs for twenty years. Not wanting to spoil my firstimpression, I keep my eye on this notebook which I balanceon one knee as I put down at random whatever comes intomy mind, simply anything in order to save for myself thesupreme moment of ecstasy when the Studio of Studios,the sublime motor to this century's myths, appears beforeme as it has so many times in dreams, its great doorsswinging wide to welcome Myra Breckinridge to her rightfulkingdom. I was born to be a star, and look like one today: afalse hairpiece gives body to my hair while the light MaxFactor base favored by Merle Oberon among other screenlovelies makes luminous my face even in the harsh light of asound stage where I shall soon be standing watching atake. Then when the director says, "O.K., print it," and thegrips prepare for another setup, the director will notice meand ask my name and then take me into the commissaryand there, over a Green Goddess salad (a favorite of thestars), talk to me at length about my face, wonderingwhether or not it is photogenic until I stop him with a smileand say: "There is only one way to find out. A screen test."To be a film star is my dearest daydream. After all, I havehad some practical experience in New York. Myron and Iboth appeared in a number of underground movies. Ofcourse they were experimental films and like mostexperiments, in the laboratory and out, they failed but even