STEELY DAWN

It was with amazement and, ultimately, apprehension, that I read reviewer Margaret Langstaff’s fawning appreciation of Dawn Steel’s book, or paean to herself, “They Can Kill You But They Can’t Eat You.”

Speaking as one who sat as a primarily silent witness while Steel and her favorite capo , Victor Kaufman, dismembered Columbia Pictures to create the new and shining temple of Columbia Tri-Star, one tends to remember Steel as not so much a good ol’ girl who just had to battle the “boys” but one who, upon entering Columbia, brought with her (from Paramount) the aroma of fresh blood-- not hers .

Within weeks of the new “Steel regime” it became apparent that La Steel’s viciousness was just as focused on women as men--and that any “normal woman” who aspired to be her assistant or secretary might be expected to resign before noon on the first day. There is such a thing as too much.

It might place the whole Steel regime in perspective to relate a justly famous anecdote, which was experienced by a former assistant of mine, now an executive at Metro.

On Christmas Eve of 1987, this gentleman was descending the wet and slippery stairs of the building on the Burbank lot then known as Columbia South. This staircase is a broad and dangerous path on a day of rainfall, and this particular Christmas Eve was one.

While descending this stair, the gentleman heard a clattering of running feet behind him, and was astonished to find himself, seconds later, being thrust out of the precipitous stairwell as someone had shoved him aside to make more convenient her departure.

Imagine the gentleman’s amazement to discover the female head of production, grimacing at him from the bottom of the stair, and, far from apologetic at the near manslaughter she had just almost achieved, the lady delivered herself of a series of short, graphic and unprintable pronouncements regarding the nature of Christmas Eve, the general swinishness of the Columbia Tri-Star personnel pool, and the fact that she, the chief, was obliged even at that moment to go and light a Christmas tree for them.

My friend drew himself up to his full 5 foot 8 and returned: “Ms. Steel, you may sound like Carole Lombard, but you’ll never be Carole Lombard.”

It’s true. Steel will never be Carole Lombard, and she will never be Joe Mankiewicz, or L.B. Mayer, or Dore Schary, or even Harry Cohn (though he is her most obvious antecedent).

She can only be Dawn Steel and pretend to be creative. Bad cess to her and bad cess to sycophants like Langstaff who drool over her.

DENNIS DOPH, WEST HOLLYWOOD