Missing Reels (26 page)

“Do you like it?”

He smiled at her. “You’ve caught me. I haven’t seen it. There’s, ah, still some obscure and fragmentary stuff I haven’t seen, especially if it wasn’t something I worked on.” He got up and walked to the light switch. “Ready?” He switched off the light, walked back and punched a button on the machine.

It was Miriam, sitting on a sofa with the man playing Count Morano. His body language was polite, formal even, but she was looking at him like he was a curled-up snake. She put up a hand as if to get him to stop talking, and he took it between both of his. She looked at him and said something, and it was evident that it was taking everything she had not to snatch her hand away. He said something else, and she did pull her hand back this time and crossed her arms against her body. She looked down at the table in front of them, refusing to meet his eyes. He made another move in her direction and she stood up, trembling a bit. She turned, looked at a point just past the camera and seemed about to ask something. The film ran out.

Ceinwen had always admired Miriam’s cool, elegant stillness. There were no nervous movements with her in real life, and here was proof that that was also the case sixty years ago. Louis Delgado had made the light play across her, like Gloria Swanson in that
Queen Kelly
scene they showed in
Sunset Boulevard
. The shadows around the edges of the room made it seem vast, although Ceinwen realized the set probably wasn’t.

She tried to shove away the feeling, but it wouldn’t leave. Disappointment; not huge, but there. Miriam said Emil loved to move the camera, and what was left of
Mysteries
was a standard medium shot. Not so much as a cut. Not a single close-up of that face he’d loved. After all he went through to reject stagey, static talkies.

“Beautiful actress,” said Fred.

“Stunning,” said Matthew, still staring at the blank screen.

Fred half-smiled and pulled on his ear. “Might be nice to see more, yes? But that’s all we got.”

At least Miriam was right about one thing, she wasn’t bad. A young girl’s terror of men, she’d said. But Ceinwen also saw anger in those small, contained gestures.

“What’s she doing at the end?” asked Matthew.

Fred shrugged. “Can’t know without seeing what came after.”

Emil had told Miriam to think about the casting offices.

“Run it again,” said Ceinwen. Both men looked at her, and she realized she didn’t sound like an assistant. “Please, can you run it again? I want to look at her costume.”

With swift, utterly fidget-free precision Fred rewound the reel, looped it back through and ran it again.

“One more time? Please? This time, look at her chest.”

“Anything you say,” said Matthew cheerfully. This time when the film ran, Ceinwen leaned forward and pointed.

“The bodice is too big. Look how the fabric is sagging over the sash.”

“Yeah, I see,” said Fred. “What’s that tell you?”

“I don’t think this is a scene from the film. I think it’s a take from her screen test,” said Ceinwen. “Her costume was too big. She told—” Matthew’s foot nudged hers. “She told an interviewer that. In an article. That I read.” Matthew closed his eyes for a second. “I don’t remember where.”

“Possible,” said Fred. “That would also explain why she looks like she’s about to ask something here. She, um, might have been asking for instructions. Or someone might have walked onto the set.” Miriam looked past the camera again and the film ran out. “If that’s what this is, it’s a rarity all right. Not a lot of screen tests from this era. Hardly anybody bothered to save them.”

“If you found more of the film,” said Ceinwen, “would you be able to transfer it so people could watch it?”

Fred’s fingers drummed on the machine. “We’d need the funds, of course. Every year we’re debating what to, um, allocate to which movies and like I said, we’re more or less forced to pick and choose. Triage, basically. With Arnheim, you know, there isn’t anything else surviving from him. So, yeah, I guess there’d be a fair amount of interest, even though nobody really knows what his films were like.”

“How about you? Would you be interested?”

His hand went back to his neck. “I’m interested in everything. That’s why I’m here, right? Framing’s good. The lighting is, um, not so typical of the period. Not at Civitas anyway. Shadowy, like actual candlelight. Actress, ah, gorgeous. And if that’s just a test, you know, the actual film is probably much better. Yeah, I’d totally want to give it some priority.” She smiled at him and he smiled back. “But I’m not the one who decides. There’s a lot of layers to, um, the bur—authorization, I mean.”

“And you’d have to find the film first,” said Matthew.

Fred’s eyes finally lit on Matthew, but only for a moment. “Yeah. That’s the hard part, obviously. As you were saying, chances are it’s gone for good.”

Matthew checked his watch. “This has been helpful. Thank you.” He stood up. “Do we have to sign for our coats?”

“I’m not sure I remember how to get out of here,” Ceinwen interjected before Fred could reply.

“On the way in, I saw signs marked ‘exit.’ Thought they might be useful at some point,” said Matthew.

“I have to take you down anyway,” said Fred, looking apologetic. They were opening the door when Fred turned around. “Oh, right. I also, um, have to bring the film.”

“In case someone walks in off the street?” inquired Matthew.

At that, Fred stalked to the table where the canister was sitting and said, loudly and fluently, “Listen, I know the rules are a pain in the ass.”

“Knock it off,” Ceinwen mouthed at Matthew, whose expression changed not a bit. Then, to Fred, “Isabel seems like a stickler.”

He opened the canister and set it next to the machine. “Oh, Isabel’s all right. She hired me. She’s just …”

“A yeller?” asked Ceinwen, with a flood of sympathy.

Fred rewound the reel. “No, god no. She’s, um, organized. Isabel is very, very organized. And when you’re kind of not …”

“You’re obviously very organized.” Fred froze with his hands on the reel, and Matthew’s whole face seemed to twitch. “Restoring a movie’s precise work. You have to keep track of a lot of different details at once,” she continued. “Probably you just don’t have a lot left over for other stuff.”

Fred flushed slightly. “Thanks. I’ll, um, remember to point that out.” He laid the film in the canister. “Anyway”—with a short, sharp look at Matthew—“Isabel’s been trying to make some changes. Stepped up the acquisitions, a lot. She wants to lend things out more. Maybe even start public screenings. But, uh, there’s all this stuff in the trust that she, ah, has to work around.”

“You have to admit it’s odd,” said Ceinwen. Quit looking at your watch, Matthew, I’m trying to find out stuff here. “Film is supposed to be the people’s art form, yes? Not some exclusive club for academics.

“Ah. Well. Old Brody, he had some ideas. He though the big ones, um, the
Casablanca
s and
Gone with the Wind
s, those films’d be fine. But the silents, the obscure stuff, eventually it would be academics and, you know, intellectuals keeping them alive. Nobody else would care.” He picked up the reel and stuck it under his arm.

“We care,” said Ceinwen.

Fred leaned toward her and said, sotto voce, “We’re weird.”

“I’m sorry to rush,” said Matthew, “but Vladimir Arnold’s giving a lecture.”

“Rock star?” joked Ceinwen.

“For maths, yes,” was the curt reply.

“You better go then,” said Ceinwen. “I was hoping I could stick around and ask Fred about some things.”

Fred shifted the canister from one arm to the other. “Like what?”

“Like, nitrate.”

“T
HEY
’
VE FOUND FILMS IN ALL KINDS OF PLACES
. B
ROOM CLOSETS
. Under porches. That guy in Vermont really did have everything in his tool shed. His wife decided on a big spring cleaning and the guy at the Brody got a tip that there was this collection and she was going to toss it all out, and he went up there and got all this stuff. And sometimes the prints would hit the end of the release period and the theaters never bothered—”

“May I interrupt?” Matthew had his burger in one hand; he’d been taking a bite whenever he gave up temporarily on trying to break in.

“Wait, this is important—they never bothered to return them to the studio. That’s how Kevin Brownlow found part of
Napoleon
, see. Czechoslovakia was the end of the line in Europe, and—”

Matthew put a finger to her lips. “I didn’t realize Fred was so fascinating. But—what’s that grin about?”

“You’ve been very patient, that’s all. Go on.”

“I’ve been trying to figure out why you wanted to spend—an hour and a half, was it?”

“An hour. He had to get back to the lab.”

“Pity. An hour, then, talking about film stock and where the Brody finds its films, when all you ever talked about before was watching films. And I have it now. You’re planning to look for this one.” She looked down and realized she’d only eaten about three bites. Admittedly, at Cozy Soup ’n’ Burger the things were as big as her head, but she had to do better than that or she’d never hear the end of it. “Aha. We’re not denying it. We’re engaging in diversionary eating.” She shrugged and continued to chew. “You think you’re going to find this film. Finish that, I’ll wait.”

At length, she said, “Maybe nobody ever looked for it before.”

“Maybe nobody else lives in your fantasy world.”

“I tend to assume that anyway.”

“Nice idea. Belongs in a movie. Like all your ideas. But you won’t find it. What you
will
find is the curse of dimensionality.”

“You know very well I don’t know what that is.” She took another bite.

“You will. When you head-butt it so hard you break that cute little nose you’re so proud of.” He handed her a napkin, and she wiped the lipstick off her chin.

“All right, professor,” she sighed. “You’re dying to tell me, so by all means, explain the curse of dimensionality.”

“In layman’s terms—”

“Oh goody. I don’t have a pencil, though.”

“In layman’s terms, and no talking out of turn please, it means that as a high number of dimensions, or here we can say variables, are added to a problem, there is an exponential increase in volume. The problem becomes unimaginably vast. In this case, for all intents and purposes, it becomes impossible.”

She took another bite and pondered. She had him. “You’re wrong.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. There aren’t that many variables,” she said. “There was a finite number of prints. And not that high a number, because it didn’t get a big release.”

“But there’s a much higher, indeterminate number of hands through which they passed. And sixty years during which the prints could have been dispersed who knows where. Even if there’s one left, it could be in Tahiti.”

“Well, no. Tropical climate. Probably wouldn’t last long there.”

“Ceinwen …”

“Nitrate should be stored in a cold place. Plus, we know it was only released here in the States. I don’t have to go to Czechoslovakia.”

“That’s a relief. Especially since you don’t have a passport. Which reminds me—”

“What time is it?” She gestured to the waitress for the check.

“It’s 7:15, and I can’t believe you—”

“We better pay up.”

“The movie’s not until eight. How can a grown woman—”

“We need a good seat. I’m short, remember.”

“Stop, I will not be distracted. It’s ludicrous, absolutely unbelievable that you let your license expire. How do you expect—”

“Excuse me, but—Ceinwen?” A man had walked over to their table, long-haired, slope-chinned, a coat that needed dry-cleaning in the worst way. She needed an out, fast. “It is you! Hello there! How are you?”

Too slow. Always too slow. She tried for a vaguely preoccupied smile and said, “Hey. I’m fine.”

“Good to see you. You’re still in the neighborhood?”

“I’m just having dinner.” The waitress came over and slipped the bill on the table.

He stuck out his hand at Matthew. “I’m Paul Becker.”

“Matthew Hill.” They shook hands. Then—friendly, too friendly—“How do you know Ceinwen?”

“From the film department over at Tisch.”

“I see. I’m at Courant. Postdoc.” Ceinwen examined the numbers on the check. Matthew motioned for her to give it to him, and Paul kept talking.

“Courant? Wow, that’s a big switch. Mathematics now?”

“I’m not at Courant, that’s just Matthew,” she said. “I’m working at the moment.”

“That’s great news. I know you were worried about having to leave the city. We’re all still hoping you can come back.”

“Oh,” she said, shrugging and keeping her eyes on Paul, “you never know.”

“You should definitely reapply. The aid parameters are always changing.” He turned to Matthew. “Ceinwen has a fine critical eye for film. Very promising student. But I’m sure you knew that.”

“Not really. She’s awfully modest,” said Matthew.

Paul was the nicest man in the film department, but that gray hair poking out of his unbuttoned collar had always bothered her. Still, if the choice was between a dead squirrel on a man’s chest and Matthew’s face at the moment …

“Hopefully you can give her some advice,” said Paul. “It’s good to have people familiar with the process. And you know, Ceinwen, like I told you at the time, you’re always welcome to stop by the office and I’ll be happy to help any way I can.” He started patting his coat. “Hang on, I’ll write it down. They switched me to another floor this year, all that work they’re doing on the building.” He was fishing in his pants pockets. “Don’t seem to have a pen.”

“Neither do I,” said Ceinwen. “Don’t worry, I can always look it up.”

“Here you are,” said Matthew. He reached in his jacket and pulled out a pen and his memo pad.

“Thanks.” Paul scrawled for a minute, then handed her the pad. “So this is where the office is now, and the phone, and I wrote down my hours. You should definitely come by sometime.” She thanked him, closed the cover to the memo pad and handed it to Matthew as Paul walked out.