Volfmann called Elizabeth the next day. He wanted her to meet a director who was interested in the project. The project? she thought. You mean the page?
“Edgy little comedy,” he was saying about the director’s first and only movie. “
Doll.
You ever see it?”
Elizabeth had not seen it, but she thought she might have read a review. Maybe she heard her students talking about it. “The girl is obsessed with her doll? Or something?”
“Yeah. It’s sexy. Nuts. But sexy. Sundance audience award. Didn’t make a nickel. So, Sunday. At the Malibu house. Bring the family.”
Elizabeth hung up, full of excitement. She lived in Los Angeles and was going to have a meeting with a director at a beach house in Malibu. She pressed the mute button and the sound of the television came back up. She was watching
The Magic Box,
an old English film she’d never heard of about an Englishman who was the true inventor of the movies. He has just succeeded in projecting the world’s first motion picture, a scene of his cousin and son walking toward him on the street. It is projected onto a sheet. It is two A.M. but he runs out into the deserted streets of London and grabs a policeman. He has to show it to someone!
Elizabeth loved old movies and watched them constantly. It was rare that she saw one on television that she hadn’t already seen. She watched Robert Donat haul the bobby up the narrow stairs, sit him down, and turn on his primitive projector.
I’m making a movie, she thought. Just like Robert Donat.
She realized the heavily whiskered cockney policeman was a very young Laurence Olivier.
“Laurence Olivier,” she said to Brett, who had come in the room and sat beside her. He was carrying bagpipes he’d just gotten on eBay.
I’m not making a movie, she thought sadly. I’m watching a movie. There is a big difference. I’m so good at watching movies.
“I’m not sure the skill of watching movies translates into writing movies,” she said to Brett.
“Don’t worry,” he said gently. “You can do it.” He blew on the long, black stem of the bagpipe. “Nothing happens,” he said.
“What if my beginner’s luck runs out?” she said. “I’ve never given any signs of being a screenwriter.”
“Now is your chance.”
But don’t you see, Elizabeth thought, I don’t want a chance. I don’t like chance. Chance is too chancy. I want to write the same paper over and over and teach the same class to succeeding generations and have them file past my deathbed, black-and-white images superimposed on my grizzled, worn self. Like Mister Chips.
“Mister Chips never wrote a screenplay,” she said.
“Well, neither have you. Yet. So relax.”
“And I’m so flattered and excited by the attentions of a rich and powerful person,” she said. “Which offends me on my own behalf.”
Brett said nothing. He flipped through a book.
Piping for Dummies.
“That’s what’s wrong with this place,” she said. “You see yourself too clearly.”
Brett usually teased her when she made declarations of this sort. She waited for him to say, “I’ve often heard that said about L.A., the city of authenticity.” Instead he looked at her in a way she could only describe as searching.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Don’t forget me.”
“What?”
He stuck both hands in his hair, trying to push it back, making it stand up ridiculously. “I don’t know. Forget it.”
Sometimes Elizabeth noticed how handsome Brett was. His eyes were soft, pale gray. His hair was soft, pale blond. Unconsciously, at least she thought it was unconscious, he wore pale gray sweaters or soft pastel shirts. He was the most harmonious of persons, melodious and silvery, a willow in a soft breeze.
Elizabeth smoothed his hair. “Forget you? You’re nuts.”
She kissed him. “Mrs. Norman Maine,” she said. His arms were around her. They pressed into each other. Forget you? Forget this feeling? Never, she thought. Never ever.
“Edgy little comedy,” he was saying about the director’s first and only movie. “
Doll.
You ever see it?”
Elizabeth had not seen it, but she thought she might have read a review. Maybe she heard her students talking about it. “The girl is obsessed with her doll? Or something?”
“Yeah. It’s sexy. Nuts. But sexy. Sundance audience award. Didn’t make a nickel. So, Sunday. At the Malibu house. Bring the family.”
Elizabeth hung up, full of excitement. She lived in Los Angeles and was going to have a meeting with a director at a beach house in Malibu. She pressed the mute button and the sound of the television came back up. She was watching
The Magic Box,
an old English film she’d never heard of about an Englishman who was the true inventor of the movies. He has just succeeded in projecting the world’s first motion picture, a scene of his cousin and son walking toward him on the street. It is projected onto a sheet. It is two A.M. but he runs out into the deserted streets of London and grabs a policeman. He has to show it to someone!
Elizabeth loved old movies and watched them constantly. It was rare that she saw one on television that she hadn’t already seen. She watched Robert Donat haul the bobby up the narrow stairs, sit him down, and turn on his primitive projector.
I’m making a movie, she thought. Just like Robert Donat.
She realized the heavily whiskered cockney policeman was a very young Laurence Olivier.
“Laurence Olivier,” she said to Brett, who had come in the room and sat beside her. He was carrying bagpipes he’d just gotten on eBay.
I’m not making a movie, she thought sadly. I’m watching a movie. There is a big difference. I’m so good at watching movies.
“I’m not sure the skill of watching movies translates into writing movies,” she said to Brett.
“Don’t worry,” he said gently. “You can do it.” He blew on the long, black stem of the bagpipe. “Nothing happens,” he said.
“What if my beginner’s luck runs out?” she said. “I’ve never given any signs of being a screenwriter.”
“Now is your chance.”
But don’t you see, Elizabeth thought, I don’t want a chance. I don’t like chance. Chance is too chancy. I want to write the same paper over and over and teach the same class to succeeding generations and have them file past my deathbed, black-and-white images superimposed on my grizzled, worn self. Like Mister Chips.
“Mister Chips never wrote a screenplay,” she said.
“Well, neither have you. Yet. So relax.”
“And I’m so flattered and excited by the attentions of a rich and powerful person,” she said. “Which offends me on my own behalf.”
Brett said nothing. He flipped through a book.
Piping for Dummies.
“That’s what’s wrong with this place,” she said. “You see yourself too clearly.”
Brett usually teased her when she made declarations of this sort. She waited for him to say, “I’ve often heard that said about L.A., the city of authenticity.” Instead he looked at her in a way she could only describe as searching.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Don’t forget me.”
“What?”
He stuck both hands in his hair, trying to push it back, making it stand up ridiculously. “I don’t know. Forget it.”
Sometimes Elizabeth noticed how handsome Brett was. His eyes were soft, pale gray. His hair was soft, pale blond. Unconsciously, at least she thought it was unconscious, he wore pale gray sweaters or soft pastel shirts. He was the most harmonious of persons, melodious and silvery, a willow in a soft breeze.
Elizabeth smoothed his hair. “Forget you? You’re nuts.”
She kissed him. “Mrs. Norman Maine,” she said. His arms were around her. They pressed into each other. Forget you? Forget this feeling? Never, she thought. Never ever.
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