Stuart Woods: Bel-Air dead

The camera was in either a blimp or a stabilized helicopter, and it rose and began to move slowly over the studio grounds, past the administration building and over the soundstages. Various standing stages, like the New York street and the small town square with its courthouse passed beneath. Then the camera moved over the lake, where an eighteenth-century sailing vessel was anchored.

In the distance could be seen the main street of a western town, with its Boot Hill at one end. From the opposite end of the street a man on horseback was at full gallop in the direction of the camera, which descended to ground level to meet him. As he approached the camera he reined in the horse, which skidded to a halt in a small cloud of dust, as its rider jumped gracefully to the ground. The man was Vance Calder.

Tall in his heeled boots, wearing a buckskin shirt with fringed sleeves and the Stetson he had worn in many westerns, Vance looked wonderfully handsome, Stone thought.

Vance slapped his horse on its ass, and it galloped off-screen, while he walked to the side of the street, outside the saloon, swept off his hat and tossed it a few feet to where it landed on one end of the hitching post. He leaned against the rail and contemplated the camera for a moment, allowing the audience to take in his lean figure, his graying hair, and his deeply tanned, finely cut face. He smiled, revealing a beautiful set of teeth.

“Hello,” Vance said, in his beautifully modulated baritone. “I believe we’ve met before.”

The audience of film people went nuts, and it was as if the dead man on the screen had anticipated this, because he paused until the noise subsided, before continuing. “Welcome to my home for the past half-century,” he said, waving an arm around him. He pushed off the rail and began to move with the camera up the street, past the sheriff’s office, the general store, and the undertaker’s parlor, continuing to speak as he strolled.

“I’ve made seventy-five films at Centurion, from westerns… to comedies… to romances… to war films… to police procedurals and just about every other kind of picture…”

And as Vance strolled and talked, something magical happened. Without his so much as pausing for a breath, the actor’s image dissolved as he continued to speak, through a series of shots of him in different costumes, on different sets around the lot. It was completely seamless, something that could only have been accomplished by a ghost-or a superb film editor.

Finally he reached the town square, and dressed in a brassbuttoned blue blazer and gray flannel trousers, and an opennecked white silk shirt with a colorful scarf tied at the neck, he took a seat on a park bench in front of the courthouse, crossed his legs, and continued.

“Centurion has survived, intact, over all these decades, because of the management of people who wanted more than to rake in big grosses, who wanted to make fine motion pictures, films that will still move audiences a hundred years hence, and beyond. The more than seven hundred films made on this lot since the late thirties have won more than a hundred and fifty Oscars, for everything from costumes, makeup, and production design to scoring, producing, directing, and acting. Six of those came to me-not just because I did a good job, but because from their inception, each of those pictures had invested in it the brains and creativity and skill of a group of extraordinary people, working together to craft some of the best entertainment this industry has ever seen.

“The board of directors, of which I am glad to be a member, has always followed a policy of offering ownership of the studio to a wide variety of the people who work here, in the belief that this practice will maintain the structure of our business in such a way that will allow the excellence of the work done here to continue for decades into the future.

“Technical advances will come along, and Centurion will embrace them, but it is the talent and creativity and hard work of the people who make our films that will always be at the heart of the work we produce, and that will enable us to keep this studio in the forefront of the motion picture business.

“You are all part of that, and I am very proud to be one of you.” Vance paused, then stood and said, “I’ll see you in the movies.” Then as the music swelled again, he turned and strolled off down the street, until, with a little wave, he disappeared around a corner.

The audience were on their feet again, applauding and shouting, many of them in tears.

Slowly, the lights came up, first on the row of Oscars, then on the people seated at the table onstage.

Rick Barron adjusted the microphone in front of him and spoke. “Now we will vote on a motion to sell forty percent of our property to Prince Enterprises.”

Stone turned and looked at Arrington. She was still staring at where the screen had been, and tears were running down her cheeks. He gave her his linen handkerchief.

“That was wonderful!” she said, trying not to sob.

“And showing it was brilliant,” Stone replied.

Rick began calling names of shareholders: “Gladys Hemmings, Wardrobe,” he said. “Fifty shares.”

“I vote with Centurion!” a woman shouted from the rear, and applause broke out again.

“Harry Bland, Maintenance, sixty-five shares.”

“You’ve got my vote, Rick,” a man shouted.

“Martin Manulis, Production, twenty thousand shares.”

A man in the front row stood. “I vote with Centurion!” he shouted.

The roll call continued, and fifteen or twenty names had been called before someone voted his ten thousand shares with Prince. A low rumble of disapproval began.

Stone had his notebook out and was keeping score. The studio was ahead about sixty-forty, he reckoned, then someone voted twenty-five thousand shares with Prince, and the developer edged ahead.

“We know where this is going, don’t we?” Arrington asked.

“Not yet we don’t,” Stone replied, busy with his pen. He looked around for a moment at the faces near him. They were tense, worried, and some had tears on their cheeks. Not a one seemed uncaring. He continued to tot up the totals.

“Where are we?” Arrington asked.

“Behind,” Stone said. And then something happened that stunned him.

“The estate of Jennifer Harris,” Rick called out. “I’m sorry, those shares have changed hands.” He looked carefully at the page before him. “Strategic Services, twenty thousand shares.”

Mike Freeman stood up. “Strategic Services votes with the studio!” he shouted, then sat down. He turned toward Stone, whose mouth was open. “It seemed like a good investment,” he said.

Arrington threw her arms around him.

“And that makes it worth every penny,” Mike said.

Rick made a note and continued. “James Long, Production, twenty thousand shares.”

Jim Long struggled to his feet from his wheelchair, assisted by Eleanor Grosvenor. “Every share voted with Centurion!” he said, raising his voice as much as he could, then he collapsed into the wheelchair.

But Mrs. Charles Grosvenor was still on her feet. She turned and shouted at Terry Prince, just across the aisle, “Take that, you son of a bitch!” then sat down.

The other shareholders laughed and applauded.

Rick continued to call the roll, and Stone continued to track the count. “Jack Schmeltzer, Production, twenty thousand shares.”

Schmeltzer stood up. “I vote with the studio,” he said quietly.

“That concludes the voting,” Rick said. “We’ll have a final count in a few minutes.” Several board members gathered around him, comparing notes. A couple of them had calculators.

“Tell me, Stone,” Arrington said.