Remake (8 page)

“Yeah,” I said. “Could you have the person take, say, Ginger Rogers’s place, so she’s dancing with Fred Astaire?”

“Sure. Foot and knee hookups, nerve stimulators. It’ll feel like she’s really dancing.”

“Not feel like,” I said. “Can you make it so she actually dances?”

He thought about it awhile, frowning at the screen. The Tin Woodman had disappeared. Ingrid Bergman and Humphrey Bogart were at the airport saying good-bye.

“Maybe,” Vincent said. “I guess. We could put on some sole-sensors and rig a feedback enhance to exaggerate her body movements so she could shuffle her feet back and forth.”

I looked at the screen. There were tears welling up in Ingrid’s eyes, glimmering like the real thing. They probably weren’t. It was probably the eighth take, or the eighteenth, and a makeup girl had come out with glycerine drops or onion juice to get the right effect. It wasn’t the tears that did it anyway. It was the face, that sweet, sad face that knew it could never have what it wanted.

“We could do sweat enhancers,” Vincent said. “Armpits, neck.”

“Never mind,” I said, still watching Ingrid. The screen split and a didge-actress stood in front of a didge-airplane, oozing baby oil.

“How about a directional sound hookup for the taps and endorphins?” Vincent said. “She’ll swear she was really dancing with Gene Kelly.”

I drank the rest of the crème de menthe and handed him the empty bottle and then went back up to my room and hacked away at
The Philadelphia Story
for two more days, trying to think of a good reason for Jimmy Stewart to carry
Katharine Hepburn and sing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” without being sloshed, and pretending I needed one.

Mayer would hardly care, and neither would his tight-assed boss. And nobody else watched liveactions. If the plot didn’t make sense, the hackates who did the remake could worry about it. They’d probably remake the remake anyway. Which was also on the list.

I called it up.
High Society
. Bing Crosby and Grace Kelly. Frank Sinatra playing Jimmy Stewart. I ff’d through the last half of it, searching for inspiration, but it was even more awash with AS’s.
And
it was a musical. I went back to
Story
and tried again.

It was no use. Jimmy Stewart had to be drunk in the swimming pool scene to tell Katharine Hepburn he loved her. Katharine had to be drunk for her fiancé to dump her and for her to realize she still loved Cary Grant.

I gave up on the scene and went back to the one before it. It was just as bad. There was too much exposition to cut it, and most of it was in Jimmy Stewart’s badly slurred voice. I rewound to the beginning of the scene and turned the sound up, getting a match so I could overdub his dialogue.

“You’re still in love with her, aren’t you?” Jimmy Stewart said, leaning belligerently toward Cary Grant.

“Mute,” I said, and watched Cary Grant say something imperturbable, his face revealing nothing.

“Insufficient,” the comp said. “Additional match data needed.”

“Yeah.” I turned the sound up again.

“Liz says you are,” Jimmy Stewart said.

I rew’d to the beginning of the scene and froze it for the frame number, and then went through the scene again.

“You’re still in love with her, aren’t you?” Jimmy Stewart said. “Liz says you are.”

I blanked the screen, and accessed Heada. “I need to find out where Alis is,” I said.

“Why?” she said suspiciously.

“I think I’ve found her a dancing teacher,” I said. “I need her class schedule.”

“Sorry,” she said. “I don’t know it.”

“Come on, you know everything,” I said. “What happened to ‘I think you should help her’?”

“What happened to, ‘I stick my neck out for nobody’?”

“I told you, I found her somebody to teach her to dance. An old woman out in Palo Alto. Ex-chorus girl. She was in
Finian’s Rainbow
and
Funny Girl
back in the seventies.”

She was still suspicious, but she gave it to me. Alis was taking Moviemaking 101, basic comp graphics stuff, and a film hist class, The Musical 1939-1980. It was clear out in Burbank.

I took the skids and a bottle of
Public Enemy
gin and went out to find her. The class was in an old studio building UCLA had bought when the skids were first built, on the second floor.

I opened the door a crack and looked in. The prof, who looked like Michael Caine in
Educating Rita
, a movie with way too many AS’s in it, was standing in front of a blank, old-fashioned comp monitor with a remote, holding forth to a scattering of students, mostly hackates taking it for their movie content elective, some Marilyns, Alis.

“Contrary to popular belief, the computer graphics revolution didn’t kill the musical,” the prof said. “The musical kicked off,” he paused to let the class titter, “in 1965.”

He turned to the monitor, which was no bigger than my array screens, and clicked the remote. Behind him, cowboys appeared, leaping around a train station.
Oklahoma
.

“The musicals, with their contrived story lines, unrealistic song-and-dance sequences, and simplistic happy endings, no longer reflected the audience’s world.”

I glanced at Alis, wondering how she was taking this. She wasn’t. She was watching the cowboys, with that intent, focused look, and her lips were moving, counting the beats, memorizing the steps.

“… which explains why the musical, unlike
film noir
and the horror movie, has not been revived in spite of the availability of such stars as Judy Garland and Gene Kelly.
The musical is irrelevant. It has nothing to say to modern audiences. For example,
Broadway Melody of 1940
…”

I retreated up the uneven steps and sat there, working on the gin and waiting for him to finish. He did, finally, and the class trickled out. A trio of faces, talking about a rumor that Disney was going to use warmbodies in
Grand Hotel
, a couple of hackates, the prof, snorting flake on his way down the steps, another hackate.

I finished off the gin. Nobody else came out, and I wondered if I’d somehow missed Alis. I went to see. The steps had gotten steeper and more uneven while I sat there. I slipped once and grabbed onto the banister, and then stood there a minute, listening. There was a clatter and then a thunk from inside the room, and the faint sound of music. The janitor?

I opened the door and leaned against it.

Alis, in a sky-blue dress with a bustle, and a flowered hat, was dancing in the middle of the room, a blue parasol perched on her shoulder. A song was coming from the comp monitor, and Alis was high-stepping in time with a line of bustled, parasoled girls on the monitor behind her.

I didn’t recognize the movie.
Carousel
, maybe?
The Harvey Girls?
The girls were replaced by high-stepping boys in derbies and straw hats, and Alis stopped, breathing hard, and pulled the remote out of her high-buttoned shoe. She rewound, stuck the remote back in her shoe, and propped the parasol against her shoulder. The girls appeared again, and Alis pointed her toe and did a turn.

She had piled the desks in stacks on either side of the room, but there still wasn’t enough room. When she swung into the second turn, her outstretched hand crashed into them, nearly knocking them over. She reached for the remote again, rew’d, and saw me. She clicked the screen off and took a step backward. “What do you want?”

I waggled my finger at her. “Give you a little advice. ‘Don’t want what you can’t have.’ Michael J. Fox,
For Love or Money
. Bar scene, party, nightclub, three bottles of champagne.
Only not anymore. Yours truly has done his job. Right down the sink.”

I swung my arm to demonstrate, like James Mason in
A Star Is Born
, and the chairs went over.

“You’re splatted,” she said.

“‘Nope.’” I grinned. “Gary Cooper in
The Plainsman”
I walked toward her. “Not splatted. Boiled, pickled, soused, sozzled. In a word, drunk as a skunk. It’s a Hollywood tradition. Do you know how many movies have drinking in them? All. Except the ones I’ve taken it out of.
Dark Victory, Citizen Kane, Little Miss Marker
. Westerns, gangster movies, weepers. It’s in all of them. Every one. Even
Broadway Melody of 1940
. Do you know why Fred got to dance the Beguine with Eleanor? Because George Murphy was too tanked up to go on. Forget dancing,” I said, making another sweeping gesture that nearly hit her. “What you need to do is have a drink.”

I tried to hand her the bottle.

She took another protective step toward the monitor. “You’re drunk.”

“Bingo,” I said. “‘Very drunk indeed,’ as Audrey Hepburn would say.
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
. A movie with a happy ending.”

“Why’d you come here?” she said. “What is it you want?”

I took a swig out of the bottle, remembered it was empty, and looked at it sadly. “Came to tell you the movies aren’t real life. Just because you want something doesn’t mean you can have it. Came to tell you to go home before they remake you. Audrey should’ve gone home to Tulip, Texas. Came to tell you to go home to Carval.” I waited, swaying, for her to get the reference.

“Andy Hardy Has Too Much to Drink”
she said. “He’s the one who needs to go home.”

The screen faded to black for a few frames, and then I was sitting halfway down the steps, with Alis leaning over me. “Are you all right?” she said, and tears were glimmering in her eyes like stars.

“I’m fine,” I said. “‘Alcohol is the great level-el-ler,’ as Jimmy Stewart would say. Need to pour some on these steps.”

“I don’t think you should take the skids in your condition,” she said.

“We’re all on the skids,” I said. “Only place left.”

“Tom,” she said, and there was another fade to black, and Fred and Ginger were on both walls, sipping martinis by the pool.

“That’ll have to go,” I said. “Have to send the message ‘We care.’ Gotta sober Jimmy Stewart up. So what if it’s the only way he can get up the courage to tell her what he really thinks? See, he knows she’s too good for him. He knows he can’t have her. He has to get drunk. Only way he can ever tell her he’s in love with her.”

I put out my hand to her hair. “How do you do that?” I said. “That backlighting thing?”

“Tom,” she said.

I let my hand drop. “Doesn’t matter. They’ll ruin it in the remake. Not real anyway.”

I waved my hand grandly at the screen like Gloria Swanson in
Sunset Boulevard
. “AU a ’lusion. Makeup and wigs and fake sets. Even Tara. Just a false front. FX and foleys.”

“I think you’d better sit down,” Alis said, taking hold of my arm.

I shook it off. “Even Fred. Not the real thing at all. All those taps were dubbed in afterwards, and they aren’t really stars. In the floor. It’s all done with mirrors.”

I lurched toward the wall. “Only it’s not even a mirror. You can put your hand right through it.”

After which things went to montage. I remember trying to get out at Forest Lawn to see where Holly Golightly was buried and Alis yanking on my arm and crying big jellied tears like the ones in Vincent’s program. And something about the station sign beeping Beguine, and then we were back in my room, which looked funny, the arrays were on the wrong side of the room, and they all showed Fred carrying Eleanor over to the pool, and I said, “You know why
the musical kicked off? Not enough drinking. Except Judy Garland,” and Alis said, “Is he splatted?” and then answered herself, “No, he’s drunk.” And I said, “‘I don’t want you to think I have a drinking problem. I can quit anytime. I just don’t want to,’” and waited, grinning foolishly, for the two of them to get the reference, but they didn’t.
“Some Like It Hot
, Marilyn Monroe,” I said, and began to cry thick, oily tears. “Poor Marilyn.”

And then I had Alis on the bed and was popping her and watching her face so I’d see it when I flashed, but the flash didn’t come, and the room went to soft-focus around the edges, and I pounded harder, faster, nailing her against the bed so she couldn’t get away, but she was already gone and I tried to go after her and ran into the arrays, Fred and Eleanor saying good-bye at the airport, and put my hand up and it went right through and I lost my balance. But when I fell, it wasn’t into Alis’s arms or into the arrays. It was into the negative-matter regions of the skids.

LEWIS STONE:
[Sternly]
I hope you’ve learned your lesson, Andrew. Drinking doesn’t solve your problems. It only makes them worse.

MICKEY ROONEY:
[Hangdog]
I know that now, Dad. And I’ve learned something else, too. I’ve learned I should mind my own business and not meddle in other people’s affairs.

LEWIS STONE:
[Doubtfully]
I hope so, Andrew. I certainly hope so.

In
The Philadelphia Story
, Katharine Hepburn’s getting drunk solved everything: her stuffed-shirt fiancé broke off the engagement, Jimmy Stewart quit tabloid journalism and started the serious novel his faithful girlfriend had always known he had in him, Mom and Dad reconciled, and Katharine Hepburn finally admitted she’d been in love with Cary Grant all along. Happy endings all around.

But the movies, as I had tried so soddenly to tell Alis, are not Real Life. And all I had done by getting drunk was to wake up in Heada’s dorm room with a two-day hangover and a six-week suspension from the skids.

Not that I was going anywhere. Andy Hardy learns his lesson, forgets about girls, and settles down to the serious task of Minding His Own Business, a job made easier by the fact that Heada wouldn’t tell me where Alis was because she wasn’t speaking to me.

And by Heada’s (or Alis’s) pouring all my liquor down the drain like Katharine Hepburn in
The African Queen
and Mayer’s putting a hold on my account till I turned in last week’s dozen. Last week’s dozen consisted of
The Philadelphia
Story
, which I was only halfway through. So it was heigh-ho, heigh-ho, off to work we go to find twelve squeaky-cleans I could claim I’d already edited, and what better place to look than Disney?