Frames (2 page)

Then
The Jazz Singer,
the Warner brothers’ last-ditch attempt to rescue their studio from bankruptcy by introducing songs and spoken dialogue to the silent screen, opened to delirious throngs at Grauman’s Chinese Theater. Overnight, Hollywood was forced to shut down its pantomime productions. Soundstages were erected, theaters were wired for speakers, and audiences were permitted to hear their favorite matinee idols speaking lines instead of having to read them on title cards. All this expensive retrofitting led to a recession in California. Reluctantly—agonizingly—Fink told his contractor to reduce the size of the orchestra pit and reconfigure the auditorium to seat a paltry eighteen hundred customers. Construction in six cities was postponed until the industry could catch its second wind.

“It was like when the dot-com bubble burst in the nineties,” Anita explained, in the singsong tone of a museum tour guide. “Millionaires found themselves lining up for free soup at Salvation Army missions. There was a song—” She broke off, stuck for the title.

“ ‘Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?’” Valentino finished. “It was about a busted railroad baron; but it applied to the Hollywood elite two years before the Depression hit New York.”

“Maybe I should keep my mouth shut and leave you in charge.” Anita’s relentlessly chipper tone fell short of covering her impatience.

“Sorry. I
did
warn you.” He reached out to stroke a crushed-velvet seat—and put his thumb through the rotted fabric. They were in the auditorium, a vast ruined chamber where the ornate brass sconces had been scavenged for scrap, leaving gaping holes in the exquisitely molded plaster.

In spite of the cutbacks, the completed Oracle was a marvel. Fink had reduced its scope, but steadfastly refused to skimp on material or workmanship. Its marquee towered forty feet into the sky, lit by sixteen thousand electric bulbs, with colored searchlights swiveling and crossing swordlike beams far above the red-tile rooftops of Golden Age Hollywood. Attendance at the premiere of
The Hollywood Review of 1929
shattered every record set since
Ben-Hur
three years before.

Six months later, Max Fink was broke.

After the stock market collapsed in ‘29, he was forced to sell his theater chain to mollify his creditors. It was a temporary reprieve. In 1933, sick, penniless, and stripped of all his delusions, one of the industry’s great visionaries put a pawnshop Colt to his head and blew out his brains in a dollar-a-week flophouse, two blocks down from a line of customers waiting to get in to see Mae West in a personal appearance at The Oracle. A friend who had lent him money to complete construction paid for his burial in Forest Lawn. Charlie Chaplin was among the pallbearers, who outnumbered the other mourners two to one.

“There’s a quaint legend connected to the place,” Anita said. “On certain nights you can see Max Fink’s ghost roaming the aisles, counting the house. Bless you!”

Valentino excused himself and blew his nose into his Starbucks napkin. “I guess dust and mold spores don’t affect spooks the way they do us mortals.”

It was just an old building after all. Neither its backstory nor the glamorous phantasms that had glided across its screen, fly-specked now and hanging in tatters, countered the tragic truth that it should have been put out of its misery decades ago.

But Valentino was a film archivist, trained to see past such flaws as broken sprocket holes, scratched frames, and the insidious orange creep of decomposition and appreciate the glory of America’s first true native art form. He found the moth-eaten carpet and water-stained gilt no less exotic than Egyptian treasures half buried in Sahara sand. There in the elephants’ graveyard of spoiled dreams he experienced the same electric thrill he’d felt the day his mother took his hand and led him into a movie theater for the first time. But that had been only a whitewashed cinderblock box in Fox Forage, Indiana. This was Max Fink’s fabled Oracle, home of
Hell’s Angels, 42nd Street, Stagecoach,
and
Anna Christie.
He could almost hear Garbo’s smoky voice, saying—

“There’s a hidden staircase here.”

“What?” He had to put on the brakes to avoid rear-ending the realtor. He’d followed her up the center aisle, across the apron of the orchestra pit, and back along the right wall toward the exit to the lobby. She’d stopped abruptly to pry with her fingers at a seam in the plaster. A six-foot-tall rectangular section came away, squealing on parched hinges. Dust motes swarmed up the current of air in a narrow shaft filled with steps.

“It leads to the projection booth.” Anita frowned at a split nail. “Fink’s crew seem to have gone to a lot of trouble to keep it out of sight.”

“Illusion.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“They called Hollywood the Dream Factory. A dream doesn’t work if you know where it’s coming from.”

“Do you teach film?”

“No, the university pays me to look for them.”

“Do they go missing often?”

“Since the beginning. Ninety percent of the movies made before the advent of sound are lost, mostly due to deliberate destruction back when no one thought there would be profit in reissuing them. Carelessness and neglect has seen to the rest, and it’s not only silents. Poor storage conditions have decimated films made as recently as the nineteen fifties. My job is to scrounge up what’s left before it vanishes.”

“Huh. Well, all this gussying-up is lost on me. I just like to pop in a tape or a disc and veg out on the sofa in my sweats.”

He smiled. “Bet you liked
Moulin Rouge.”

“Oh, yes. It was fabulous! Now, watch your step. I’m sure these stairs aren’t up to code.”

In the stairwell he thought he smelled stale popcorn and the residue of thousands of Lucky Strikes and nickel cigars. It was probably dry rot, or possibly phantom Fink sneaking a snack and a smoke. Valentino had to turn sideways to avoid brushing the walls and soiling his shirt.

The booth was actually a spacious loft, with a square opening overlooking the remains of the screen. He remembered that The Oracle had been one of the last L.A. theaters to show 3-D movies during the brief heyday of
Bwana Devil
and
Dial M for Murder.
That process had required twin Bell & Howell projectors, each the size of a VW Beetle. They’d have needed plenty of room, but not this much. He could have put all the furniture in his apartment into this space.

Anita seemed to sense the source of his curiosity. She pointed. “There used to be a wall there. On the other side was a sort of lumber room where they stored posters and props. I probably don’t have to tell you they had live shows during the Depression, to entice people who wouldn’t normally spend money on a ticket. In the sixties this was a hippie commune.” Her voice dropped to a whisper on the last two words, as if she were referring to a colony of lepers. “There’s a bathroom through that door, which the projectionist used. It’s a comfortable bachelor arrangement. Is there a
Mrs.
Valentino?”

He wondered if she was hitting on him, then discarded the thought as embarrassingly narcissistic. In any case a romantic relationship with someone who thought
Moulin Rouge
was fabulous was doomed.

“I barely have time for a private life, much less marriage. What’s in there?” He pointed to a shallow alcove whose back wall curved to follow the shoulder of the roof.

“Just some cans, the flat kind they put film in. They’re empty.”

He felt a flash of disappointment. He’d once found two hundred feet of Theda Bara’s
Cleopatra
being used to demonstrate a toy projector in a junk shop in Oklahoma City, and on first glance that place had held far less promise than this. “Is it all right if I look?”

“Be careful. The floor’s in bad shape.”

The enclosure was six feet wide and four deep. Stepping inside, he felt with his feet for the joists beneath the curling plywood.

“It was plastered over too,” she said, “probably to conserve heat.”

The air was stale but dry and cool. There was no light fixture. He peered through the dimness, groping at built-in wire racks holding jumbles of film cans that made a tinny empty noise when he moved them, a melancholy sound. He placed a hand against the cantilevered back wall to support himself and reached down to tug at the first in a row of cans standing on edge on the bottom rack.

Something thumped inside.

**

CHAPTER

2

“THE NAME IS Valentino.”

“Yeah, right.” The attendant in the campus garage, gray-haired and wearing bifocals, was old enough to assign some meaning to the name. “You look a little like him, at that.”

Sadly, that was true. His light olive coloring, clean profile, and the glossy black hair that he could control only by brushing straight back from his forehead were a coincidence that caused him grief on a regular basis. In college he’d been known as Sheik, a nickname he’d likely still be suffering under if the new generation were aware there had even
been a
silent cinema, let alone a star who shared his name.

He stuck his driver’s license outside his window. “Look it up on your list.”

The attendant took the card and ran a thick finger down the sheet on the clipboard hanging inside the booth. He grunted and handed back the license. “Next time don’t forget your parking pass.”

“Thanks.”

“And bring your camel.”

His office was a crawl space in a building that had once been part of the university’s power plant, and a reliquary of film books and piles of videocassettes, laser discs, and DVDs, with kitschy likenesses of old-time movie stars and cartoon characters in cloth and porcelain and painted tin on shelves—gifts from well-meaning friends who’d overestimated his interest in vintage cinema culture. He couldn’t spend more than thirty minutes there without becoming claustrophobic, but he had part-time access to a secretary named Ruth and full-time access to Kyle Broadhead, a Film Studies professor whose name appeared in the bibliographies of half the references in Valentino’s office. Broadhead occupied the room across the hall.

But not at present.

Valentino knocked, then opened the door to the little monastic cell, bare of books and bric-a-brac and Broadhead.

“He’s out.”

He turned to face the gray, polished-stone stare of Ruth, forted up behind her desk in the linoleum no-man’s-land that separated the two offices. Every dyed-black hair was in place and sprayed stiff as vinyl, and her expression was unreadable as ever behind its enamel mask of makeup. She resembled Jane Russell circa 1943, put up in brine.

“I can see he’s out,” he said. “He’s never out. Which hospital did they take him to?”

“The fall term began today. He makes it a point to drop in on his classroom the first and last day of the semester.”

He looked at his watch. Third hour had just started. “It’s too much to hope for that they’d wait till fall. I’d settle for the end of August.”

“Since when do you care? You don’t study and you don’t teach.” Which by her standards was the sum total of anyone’s usefulness to academe. She herself attended a course in kickboxing two nights a week.

“Every day we see each other, he asks, ‘What’s new?’, and I say, ‘Nothing much.’ The first time all year I have something worth talking about and he suddenly remembers he’s faculty.”

“Talk to me.”

“Not you, Ms. Buzzkill.”

“What’s that?” Her store of vernacular had closed its doors after Sputnik.

“Someone who stands in front of the Pantages and shouts at the people waiting in line to see
The Crying Game,
‘She’s a man!’”

“It was the Pacific, and I was speaking in a normal tone of voice. The fresh kid at the popcorn counter shortchanged me.”

“When Kyle gets in, please tell him I want to talk to him.”

Her telephone rang. She snapped up the receiver. “Power plant.”

Valentino kept his silence and carried it into his private space. He and Broadhead had been trying for years to persuade her to say “Department of Film Preservation” when she answered the phone. It was Ruth’s opinion, frequently expressed, that an electric generator performed a more important service to the community than two grown men sitting around watching movies day after day. Apart from the fact that it was nearly impossible to dismiss an employee with her seniority, they put up with her for her inexhaustible supply of industry gossip. Her sources riddled the clerical departments of all the major studios, and she’d been around town longer than CinemaScope. Not only did Ruth know where all the bodies were buried in Hollywood; she’d helped dig some of the holes.

He opened a computer file and tried to busy himself cataloguing recent acquisitions, but they were mostly documentaries on extinct local flora and home movies of wooden oil derricks on Sepulveda and orange groves in the Valley; subjects of interest mainly to the people who wrote pamphlets for the historical society. He kept pausing to check the clock on the screen, whose second hand seemed to have contracted catatonia. After a glacial age, the door opened without a knock and Kyle Broadhead stuck his big sleepy-looking face into the office.

“Rotten feng shui,” he said, dragging his gaze around the clutter. “You ought to shovel all this crap into a Dumpster.”

“I need the crap. We don’t all of us carry a forty-volume encyclopedia of film around in our skulls.”