My name is Angeline Currie. You won't find that name in any history of Hollywood. In all the movies in which I starred from the '40s to the '60s, and the character roles I played in movies and on TV in the twilight of my career, I was billed quite differently. Not even my agent knew my real name but, trust me, if you heard my professional name you'd certainly know it.
I arrived in Hollywood in 1938 as a naïve 19-year old from a little dirt town in Nebraska. Like every other pretty girl in town I was there to be, not just an actress, but a star. With my luxuriant red hair, my perky breasts and my long shapely legs, I knew that Errol, Clark, Spence and the rest were just waiting for me to fall into their arms; it was simply a matter of time. I had played starring roles in three Kirk Steiner plays – a big deal in my home county – and Tinsel Town was mine for the taking. Yeah, right, me and every other dumb broad waiting table in every diner on Sunset Strip.
I was luckier than most though. When I arrived MGM were hiring – not talent, just general help – and I found myself gazing from afar at many of my screen idols (some of whom I acted opposite in later years). My job had some high-falutin' name, but we were known on the lot as gofers, as in go fer this, go fer that...general dogsbody was another name for it. The pay wasn't great, but it was enough to live on, with a little left over for my acting classes. So I raced around the Culver City studios, fetching, carrying, and at the beck and call of anybody and everybody. I bumped into Errol Flynn once, literally, as I hurtled around a corner. He gave me his trademark smile and said, "Well, hello there." Every instinct in my body screamed at me to stay and flirt, but I was carrying an important message to King Vidor, so all I could do was gasp an apology and rush off. I reminded dear Errol about the incident years later, and he claimed not only to remember it, but to have fallen in love with me at that moment, the old dog!
I got a real thrill in early '39, when I was assigned as an assistant prop mistress to the crew for The Wizard of Oz. There was a tremendous buzz around the studio about that production; public interest was aroused from the moment Metro had announced they were making the movie, and with Judy Garland cast as Dorothy everyone believed it was going to be a huge hit. Unfortunately, it wasn't the happiest film set I ever experienced. There were injuries to important cast members, changes of director and actors, re-shoots...and of course, the Munchkins.
There were well over a hundred of those little people (as they preferred to be called) on the set. I'd led a relatively sheltered life before flitting to California, and I had seen very few midgets. I'm ashamed now to say that, at first, I felt them a little creepy, those hordes with the bodies of children and the faces of adults. Most of the experienced performers were German circus artists and spoke only their native tongue, whereas most of the English speakers had very little background as performers. They had to be sternly managed the first time they rehearsed one of the movie's most famous songs: the Germans sang in thick accents, and the Americans could clearly be heard to be singing "Follow the yellow prick road..."
For all their jollity on-screen, off it they seemed a pretty miserable bunch. I had as little to do with them as possible, but rumors of their outrageous behavior swept the lot. Cooped up in the Culver Hotel, they were said to relieve their boredom by constantly drinking and fornicating with complete abandon. Like all such Hollywood stories, this one became more exaggerated with each telling. I have to say that personally I saw few signs of drunkenness among them around the lot, although I knew two male electricians who were offered a good time by female Munchkins, and the female cast and crew were warned to be on our guard against the men. One of the men even propositioned Judy – and her mother!
The first time I actually came face-to-face with the reality of their behavior was one evening when I was putting away some stuff from the set. I was working late, and as I approached the locker where the items belonged I heard what sounded like a groaning noise. I thought maybe someone was hurt, and I was just about to call out when a female voice moaned, "Oh fuck, yes!" It was followed by an earthy male laugh. I guessed what was happening of course, and the proper thing would have been to go back later, or even just to cough and announce my presence. But I didn't. I don't know why, but I crept forwards to see who it was doing the wild thing.
As I peeked my head around a corner I saw one of the studio secretaries, a pretty brunette as tall as me, half-laying on a battered chaise longue, her skirt pushed up around her waist. Her long tanned legs were spread wide, her stockings around her ankles, and her panties on the floor beside her feet. Between her legs, gripping her thighs in his hands and grunting as he pumped at her, was a man with wavy blond hair, a bare torso that rippled with muscle, a tight butt, revealed by the pants gathered around his ankles – and standing all of three-feet-nine tall! I watched in silent astonishment. I knew I should leave, but I couldn't drag my eyes away from the bizarre sight before me. I knew the man concerned was called Randall, one of the American midgets and, from what I'd seen, something of a loudmouth. I think I must have made some sound, because suddenly his face swiveled towards me. Our eyes locked for a moment; then he leered at me and gave me a wink before turning back to his paramour, thrusting at her even more vigorously. I felt my face glowing red, but still I couldn't pull away. Within moments the woman's moans of pleasure turned to almost a scream, as she cried, "Oh God Randy, oh sweet Jesus Mary Joseph, yessss!" She lurched at him, then sank back into the chaise, her tongue lolling out. As the little guy reached up and began unbuttoning her blouse I finally turned and fled.
That evening I couldn't get what I'd seen out of my head. I shared an apartment with three other girls, and the one who was home that evening got furious with me because I was so distracted that I wasn't listening to her whine about what a crummy day she'd had. Later, in bed, I was still thinking about it. The woman Randall had been fucking had to be fully two feet taller than him. I had only ever seen one adult male penis at that time, but surely such a small man had to be built in proportion, didn't he? Yet the look of pure pleasure on that woman's face as he...I realized with a shock of guilt that, as all this passed through my mind, I was stroking a finger along my pussy, sending a warm glow running through me.
The next day I tried hard to put the scene from the night before out of my mind as I walked through the studio gates. I wasn't allowed to do so for long though. My first job of the day was to load up costumes to go to the laundry. As I was sorting them into bags I heard a polite throat-clearing. I glanced up, and Randall was leaning against the doorframe smiling in my direction. He was wearing a checkered shirt with enough buttons undone to reveal a bulging chest. His sleeves were rolled up, showing his muscular arms too. I scowled at him, but he gave me another wink. "Hi sugar. Enjoy the show last night?"
