John Sayles - The Anarchist's Convention and Other Stories

"Miss, you didn't pick up the last one."

"Pardon?"

"You didn't come and pick up last week's feature from us. On the Town. Gene Kelly and Frank Sinatra? I thought. you might want it."

"Oh. Oh dear. Let me check something."

There is a long silence. Gerald begins to nod at his book. "Mise-en-scene," he says.

"Mr. Shine? We're very sorry, there's been a mix-up. How late will you people be open?"

"Till eleven. Have whoever you send just come in the back."

"We'll do that."

"I'd also like to confirm the cancellations."

"Cancellations?"

"There should be a letter on your desk by now."

"You realize, Mr. Shine, that there is a fee for cancellations? We take a loss on the arrangements we make. Ordering, shipping, things like that."

"Don't try to con me, Miss, you've got all our standards in stock. So put them back on the shelf."

"There is a fee for cancellations."

"You can take that up with Mr. Pincus," he says, and hangs up. "Film," he says to Gerald, "is a delicate medium."

"Time," says Gerald, deep in his book, "and space."

The two cardboard boxes Eddie Pincus brought are sitting in the corner, their tops wet. Shine can't read the smeared label and pulls one open to see. There are a couple pages of promotional literature lying on top of a boxful of tinted plastic glasses in cardboard frames. At the bottom of the promo there is a blob of pink roughly in the form of a woman. Shine puts a pair of the glasses on and the blob sharpens into a naked woman, her tits pimpling up at him from the paper. 3-n PUSSYCATS it says in mound-letters. Shine looks about him and sees that Gerald has lost all definition, the wall posters are smudged faceless, only the miniature naked lady is real anymore.

"A delicate medium."

Shine reaches around Gerald and pulls the drawers from his desk, laying them on the floor. He starts a junk pile and a Keep pile, but keeps almost everything. Publicity photos, posters, even snippets of film — he saves them all. He sorts the posters by studio, MGM and Fox claiming the-most..

"The stuff on the walls too," says Gerald. "Mr. Pincus said the stuff on the walls goes too."

Technicolor! say the posters. Cinerama! All Talking all Singing all Dancing! Brando in The Wild One, Dean in Rebel, Garfield in The Sea Wolf and Wayne in Stagecoach, all looking impossibly young and lipsticked. A picture of Shine, also impossibly young, standing with Pincus Sr., in front of the first theater. The old gentleman looking serious and dignified, his young partner grinning, out of place. Shine takes them all down and gently adds them to the pile. He imagines a cliche flashback to his youth, a slow dissolve with a harp flowing distantly on the soundtrack, till his father's face appears looking down as if to a child.

"Our bissness," he whispers as if sharing a great secret. "The motion-picter bissness is our bissness. Never forget this. Luke et Mayer," he says, "luke et Cohn. Thalberg, Selznick, Sammy Goldfish. Op front it may be American boyss, powdered meelk, Gables end Crossbys, but it's our bissness. We pull on the strings. Never forget this."

The camera tracks back to show a thin, middle-aged man in a faded blue usher's uniform. RIALTO it says in yellow script over the left breast.

Ridiculous casting, his father never had an accent.

Shine ties paper into bundles. The junk pile, mostly old bills, he kicks into the corner with Eddie's 3-D glasses.

In the theater, on the screen, the three prospectors strike gold near the top of the mountain and rig a sluice to mine. There are weeks of hard, hot work. Greed creeps into the camp, and paranoia. They begin to split each day's take three ways and hide their goods from each other in the bush. Ban- ditos attack, their leader Gold Hat braying evilly to set the standard for a generation of Mexican outlaws. An outsider tries to extort his way into the find and is killed. The gold begins to peter out and the men break camp, first putting the mountain back the way they found it. Thanks mountain, they say as they head down the trail toward civilization.

The old man, Walter Huston, is taken by Indians to be honored for saving a half-drowned native boy, leaving Bogart and bland Tim Holt to manage all the heavy-laden burros. Gold-fever and isolation begin to work on Bogart, he grapples with Holt and has his gun taken away. They sit across the fire from each other that night, Holt wary but fading with exhaustion. We'll see who falls asleep first, says Bogart. His wild, flame-lit face breaks into Satanic laughter. We'll see who falls asleep first, partner.

During slow scenes or long dissolves there is a mass creaking as the audience shifts in the old seats, like some huge animal stretching after a century's sleep. There is an occasional wet sniff and the methodical crunching of jawbreakers in the back row. The people sit deep in their seats, prop their legs before them and tilt their heads back as if being fed a long, satisfying meal. The rain outside is faintly audible, but like the glowing red Exrr signs to either side of the screen, it has long since become subliminal. The drying clothes and wet hair give off a woolly must peppered with sweat and cola and aged peppermint gum. Someone in the front has a mild case of asthma.

The phone rings in the office. Gerald listens for a moment, then offers it up to Shine.

"Hello."

"Mr. Shine?"

"Yes."

"This is Arnold Marchand of Picoso Productions? We've been informed that your theater operation is undergoing a change of policy, and we'd like to give you the chance to look over our line and see if we can do some business."

"I'm not in business anymore."

"This is Mr. Shine, isn't it?"

"Yes, but — "

"It won't be any trouble, we'll just bring down a few samples of the product for a screening. You know, trailers of the best scenes cut together — "

"I don't think you — "

"Some of our double bills have been getting very heavy traffic in your area. Did you catch Teenage Temptress and Evita at the State-Ex?"

"No."

"Ours. Played five weeks, house record. Area's been saturated with those two of course, but there's plenty more where — "

"I'm not connected with booking anymore. You'll have to speak with Mr. Pincus."

"We can supply all the promotion ourselves, it's written into the rental. Whatsay we set up a meeting Saturday, fourthirty, maybe five?"

"Talk to Pincus."

"We've got the full range, hard-core right down to Russ Meyer and the cuntless wonders, we — "

Shine hangs up. "Trash," he says to Gerald. "He's buying trash."

"So what do you call this stuff?" Gerald nods to the bundle of posters. "Art? It's pornography of the spirit, Hollywood propaganda, fluff. Different brand of trash, that's all." He returns to his book.

The phone rings again. Shine grits his teeth and lifts it. "Talk to Pincus."

"Pardon?" It is a new voice.

"Oh. Sorry. What can I do for you?"

"When are you going to have the wizard again?"

"The wizard?"

"Of Oz. When are you going to have it again?"

"I don't know," says Shine, "but I wouldn't hold my breath."

Bogart gains the upper hand and wounds Tim Holt, leaving him for dead in the brush. He tries to handle all the burros and gold himself. Not far from safety, he runs into Gold, Hat and two other banditos. The two try on his hat and measure his boots as he tries to bluff them into thinking help is on its way. Gold Hat cuts him down with a machete, and not knowing unrefined gold dust from sand, slashes the bags open, leaves them lying on the desert floor and scrambles after the burros. A wind begins to pick up.

Meanwhile, Holt has been found by Indians and brought to the old man. His wounds are treated and they mount up to search for Bogart.

The phone rings again. Gerald leaves to find a spot where he can read in peace till the six-o'clock showing. "Crosscutting," he mumbles at the door.