Эд Макбейн - Mothers and Daughters

“I know, but this happens to be his pay-off scene.”

“Then why’d you take all that footage of the girl? You must have had something in mind.”

“Who remembers what I had in mind? All I know is when I saw the rushes, we discussed the way I wanted it cut, remember? Do you recall that?”

“Sure, I do. But did you see that girl’s coloring? She’s got good coloring, and an interesting face. Look, I may be wrong, but didn’t you want that scene to show what the speech was doing to both of them? If we stay on Tony, we lose half the power of the scene. You shot some beautiful stuff there, kid. It’d be a shame to waste it. That close-up of her eyes is real artistry, I mean it. Reminds me of some of Bergman’s stuff.”

“Ingrid’s?”

“I was thinking of Ingmar, but what’s the difference? Look, it’s your picture. Am I supposed to tell you that one thing you shot is better than another? You did them both, didn’t you? Either way is great. But I think the essence of what you really want to say is in that girl’s face. I know it makes me cry, that’s all. I’ve cut a lot of pictures, kid, but the way you shot that girl... well, it makes me cry.”

“Well, maybe so. But if we lose—”

“And the beauty of what you did is that we get Tony’s reaction at the same time, almost like a double exposure. That takes some doing, believe me, getting a multiple viewpoint on the screen, especially in a crucial scene like this one.”

“You think it comes over? His reaction?”

“Absolutely. And do you know why? Because of what you accomplished with that girl. Do you realize the performance you got out of a bit player? It’s fantastic, that’s all. The camera stays on her most of the time, and it’s still Tony’s pay-off scene. That’s the kind of stuff that makes them sit up and take notice, believe me. The oblique approach, nothing head-on, subtle.”

“Well, we don’t want to get too subtle. If we—”

“Who said it’s too subtle? With those close-ups of the girl’s face? And that shot of her eyes when the tears start rolling? How could that be too subtle? Listen, don’t underestimate yourself.”

“I’m a little worried about that fade at the end, though, aren’t you? I don’t think we stay on Tony long enough to see—”

“Oh, I’ve got footage I can tack onto that. Do you want a longer fade there?”

“I think a longer fade might—”

“Plenty of footage. Longer fade’s no problem.”

“It might round out the scene better, don’t you think?”

“It would make the scene perfect . Just the way it is, with a longer fade.”

“You liked that close-up of the eyes, huh?”

“Beautiful.”

“She really cried, you know. We didn’t use glycerin.”

“It shows. The patience you took with that scene shows.”

“Well, let’s try it this way for now, okay? We’ll see how it fits into the over-all scheme. Maybe we do need a change of pace there, get the hell away from Tony for a while.”

“I figured that was the way you intended it.”

“Probably, but you know how easy it is to forget things. So many damn things going on at once.”

Hank laughed. “Boy, you don’t have to tell me,” he said. “But I think the scene looks just great now, except for that longer fade you want. I’ll give you that. It’ll round things out just the way you want them.”

“I think you’re right.” He nodded, pleased with himself. “About the rushes, Hank. I liked that third take in the saloon, but the color looked a little off to me. Can we get another print on that?’”

The work on the picture consumed Christmas and the New Year, and late in January she went back to the studio to dub in the sound that had been lost on location. She saw the revised scene for the first time then, and rushed out immediately afterward to buy a pair of gold cuff links for Hank, a gift that cost her almost two days’ salary. There was nothing more to do now, nothing but sit and wait and hope the picture would eventually lead to something else. Her agent sent her to audition for a part on Peter Gunn , and she was terribly surprised when she got it because she was hardly the type of curvaceous cutie who paraded across the Peter Gunn screen. But that involved only a few days’ rehearsal and shooting, and then she sat back to wait again. It was February already, and warmer than any California February she could remember. When Ben Cameron called one day and asked if she’d like to go with him on his boat to Catalina, she accepted eagerly. She would have accepted anything that helped to pass the time.

Ben was an actor she saw regularly, a man who’d made his peace with the world and possibly with himself. He’d come to Hollywood after a long run in a Broadway hit, a supporting role to be sure, but one that had got him a screen test and a studio contract. His story was hardly a fresh one. He’d hung around for seven years collecting his salary and doing almost nothing. When his option finally expired, another studio discovered he was an expert horseman and could fall off horses with great realism. He had since fallen off more horses than he could count. He refused to call himself a stunt man. He was an equestrian expert, and he had fallen off horses as an Indian, a Civil War soldier, a Crusader, a renegade outlaw, a Mongolian chieftain, a Foreign Legionnaire, a regimental brigadier, an Arab, and even a mounted policeman. He earned a good living, and he owned a Chris Craft cruiser and a house in Venice in the midst of the beatniks. Every Friday night, he and his friends would gather at his house and he would cook them a lasagna dinner. Lasagna was his specialty. He was a fairly happy guy. He very rarely thought of his days in the theater, or of that single long-run play on Broadway.

Once, though, he said to Gillian, “Do you know what I liked best about the theater? Whenever you came to a new house, a strange dressing room, there was always something written on the mirror. In one place, I remember, someone had written, ‘Don’t look up. There’s no balcony.’ In another place, somebody had written in lipstick, ‘Skunk them!’” He had shaken his head wistfully. “Nobody ever writes anything on a horse, Gilly.”

They talked all the way to Santa Monica, where his boat was moored. Ben was a good sailor, and she helped him with his lines until they were under way, and then she lay on the deck with her blouse tied in a knot under her breasts, soaking up sunshine. The sky was almost cloudless, the ocean calm. Ben dropped anchor off Catalina, and they ate sandwiches and drank Cokes and then lay back on the deck again, Gillian with her eyes closed, Ben with his hand resting gently on her thigh, the boat almost motionless on a calm sea, the sun intense.

“Want to do some diving?” Ben asked.

“Sure,” she said.

“Go on below and change. I’ll get the tanks ready.”

“I’ve never dived with a tank, Ben.”

“You’ve snorkeled, haven’t you?”

“Yes, but...”

“The tanks are easy,” he said. “I’ll teach you.”

“Okay.”

She went below and changed into her suit, a one-piece green wool. When she came topside again, Ben had already taken out the masks and flippers and was opening the valves on the tanks. He taught her how to breathe through the mouthpiece, explaining that the regulator would automatically control the flow of oxygen, giving her as much or as little as she needed for normal breathing.

“We’ll practice near the boat at first,” he said. “Then we can dive a little.”

He strapped one of the tanks to her back and laughed when she sagged under its weight. “Crouch down on the edge of the boat,” he said, “and fall into the water backwards. Don’t worry about the tank. It won’t weigh a thing once you hit the water. Hold your mask now. Go on, Gillian.”