takeover was a done deal, Columbia Tri-Star was doing a remake of
Somewhere in Time
.
“There was this Columbia exec at the party,” Heada told me, perched on my bed. “He said they’ve been doing experiments with images projected into negative matter regions, and there’s a measurable lag. He says they’re
this
close”—she did the thumb-and-forefinger bit—“to inventing time travel.”
“Great,” I said. “Alis can go back to the thirties and take dancing lessons from Busby Berkeley himself.”
Only she didn’t like Busby Berkeley, and after taking all the AS’s out of
Footlight Parade
and
Gold Diggers of 1933
, neither did I.
She was right about there not being any dancing in his movies. There was a glimpse of tapping feet in
42nd Street
, a rehearsal going on in the background of a plot exposition scene, a few bars in “Pettin’ in the Park” for Ruby, who danced about as well as Judy Garland. Otherwise it was all neon violins and revolving wedding cakes and fountains andposed platinum-haired chorus girls, every one of whom had probably been a studio exec’s popsy. Overhead kaleidoscope shots and pans and low-angle shots from underneath chorus girls’ spread-apart legs that would have given the Hays Office fits. But no dancing.
Lots of drinking, though—speakeasies and backstage parties and silver flasks stuck in chorus girls’ garters. Even a production number in a bar, with Ruby Keeler as Shanghai Lil, a popsy who’d done a lot of hooch and a lot of sailors. A hymn to alcohol’s finer qualities.
Of which there were many. It was cheap, it didn’t do as much damage as redline, and if it didn’t give you the blessed forgetfulness of chooch, it stopped the flashing and put a nice soft-focus on things in general. Which made it easier to work on Mayer’s list.
It also came in assorted flavors—martinis for
Topper
, elderberry wine for
Arsenic and Old Lace
, a nice Chianti for
Silence of the Lambs
. In between I drank champagne, which had apparently been in every movie ever made, and cursed Mayer, and deleted beakers and laboratory flasks from the cantina scene in
Star Wars
.
I went to the next party, and the one after that, but Alis wasn’t there. Vincent was, demonstrating another program, and the studio exec, still pitching time travel to the Marilyns, and Heada.
“That stuff wasn’t klieg after all,” she told me. “It was some designer chooch from Brazil.”
“Which explains why I keep hearing the Beguine,” I said.
“Huh?”
“Nothing,” I said, looking around the room. Vincent’s program must be a weeper simulator. Jackie Cooper was up on the screen, in a battered top hat and a polka-dot tie, blubbering over his dead dog.
“She’s not here,” Heada said.
“I was looking for Mayer,” I said. “He’s going to have to pay me double for
The Philadelphia Story
. The thing’s full of alcohol. Sherry before lunch, martinis out by the pool, champagne, cocktails, hangovers, ice packs. Cary Grant, KatharineHepburn, Jimmy Stewart. The whole cast’s stinking.”
I took a swig from the crème de menthe I had left over from
Days of Wine and Roses
. “The visuals will take at least three weeks, and that doesn’t include the lines. ‘I have the hiccups. I wonder if I might borrow a drink.’”
“She was here earlier,” Heada said. “One of the execs was hitting on her.”
“No, no, I say, ‘I wonder if I might borrow a drink,’ and
you
say, ‘Certainly. Coals to Newcastle.’” I took another drink.
“Should you be doing so much alcohol?” Heada, the chooch queen, said.
“I have to,” I said. “It’s the bad effect of watching all these movies. Thank goodness ILMGM’s remaking them so no one else will be corrupted.” I drank some more crème de menthe.
Heada looked at me sharply, like she’d been doing klieg again. “ILMGM’s doing a remake of
Time After Time
. The exec told Alis he thought he could get her a part in it.”
“Great,” I said,
Somewhere in Time
.
“There was this Columbia exec at the party,” Heada told me, perched on my bed. “He said they’ve been doing experiments with images projected into negative matter regions, and there’s a measurable lag. He says they’re
this
close”—she did the thumb-and-forefinger bit—“to inventing time travel.”
“Great,” I said. “Alis can go back to the thirties and take dancing lessons from Busby Berkeley himself.”
Only she didn’t like Busby Berkeley, and after taking all the AS’s out of
Footlight Parade
and
Gold Diggers of 1933
, neither did I.
She was right about there not being any dancing in his movies. There was a glimpse of tapping feet in
42nd Street
, a rehearsal going on in the background of a plot exposition scene, a few bars in “Pettin’ in the Park” for Ruby, who danced about as well as Judy Garland. Otherwise it was all neon violins and revolving wedding cakes and fountains andposed platinum-haired chorus girls, every one of whom had probably been a studio exec’s popsy. Overhead kaleidoscope shots and pans and low-angle shots from underneath chorus girls’ spread-apart legs that would have given the Hays Office fits. But no dancing.
Lots of drinking, though—speakeasies and backstage parties and silver flasks stuck in chorus girls’ garters. Even a production number in a bar, with Ruby Keeler as Shanghai Lil, a popsy who’d done a lot of hooch and a lot of sailors. A hymn to alcohol’s finer qualities.
Of which there were many. It was cheap, it didn’t do as much damage as redline, and if it didn’t give you the blessed forgetfulness of chooch, it stopped the flashing and put a nice soft-focus on things in general. Which made it easier to work on Mayer’s list.
It also came in assorted flavors—martinis for
Topper
, elderberry wine for
Arsenic and Old Lace
, a nice Chianti for
Silence of the Lambs
. In between I drank champagne, which had apparently been in every movie ever made, and cursed Mayer, and deleted beakers and laboratory flasks from the cantina scene in
Star Wars
.
I went to the next party, and the one after that, but Alis wasn’t there. Vincent was, demonstrating another program, and the studio exec, still pitching time travel to the Marilyns, and Heada.
“That stuff wasn’t klieg after all,” she told me. “It was some designer chooch from Brazil.”
“Which explains why I keep hearing the Beguine,” I said.
“Huh?”
“Nothing,” I said, looking around the room. Vincent’s program must be a weeper simulator. Jackie Cooper was up on the screen, in a battered top hat and a polka-dot tie, blubbering over his dead dog.
“She’s not here,” Heada said.
“I was looking for Mayer,” I said. “He’s going to have to pay me double for
The Philadelphia Story
. The thing’s full of alcohol. Sherry before lunch, martinis out by the pool, champagne, cocktails, hangovers, ice packs. Cary Grant, KatharineHepburn, Jimmy Stewart. The whole cast’s stinking.”
I took a swig from the crème de menthe I had left over from
Days of Wine and Roses
. “The visuals will take at least three weeks, and that doesn’t include the lines. ‘I have the hiccups. I wonder if I might borrow a drink.’”
“She was here earlier,” Heada said. “One of the execs was hitting on her.”
“No, no, I say, ‘I wonder if I might borrow a drink,’ and
you
say, ‘Certainly. Coals to Newcastle.’” I took another drink.
“Should you be doing so much alcohol?” Heada, the chooch queen, said.
“I have to,” I said. “It’s the bad effect of watching all these movies. Thank goodness ILMGM’s remaking them so no one else will be corrupted.” I drank some more crème de menthe.
Heada looked at me sharply, like she’d been doing klieg again. “ILMGM’s doing a remake of
Time After Time
. The exec told Alis he thought he could get her a part in it.”
“Great,” I said,
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