I am always astonished by the assumptions of these young experts who explain to me how such-and-such a scene was shot by so-and-so, designed by so-and-so, featuring so-and-so! When I tell them who was who and what was what they say I am wrong! It is the same with ethics. It seems experience is good for nothing! They view me as an old boltun, making some sort of personal case, when all I am describing is what I actually saw. Equally with Egypt and Nasser. Those same children who took his part in 1956 are the ones who call me a Nazi! Yet Nasser was not merely a good friend to Hitler, he looked up to him as an admired role model! This is also true of Sadat, whose support of the National Socialists is a matter of record and whose talk of peace with Israel is a very different line to the one he took in the forties and fifties! But that is how it is, these days. I must say nothing in favour of the Third Reich but I am supposed to think of the pro-Nazi Third World as brothers. I remind them that ‘socialism’ is not a synonym for ‘humanism’. Just because some swarthy power-seeker chooses to call himself a socialist makes him no more or less credible than a dictator who claims that God has called him to office, or Hugh Hefner declaring himself a feminist. I point this out in relation to Vietnam, but I am always shouted down. I have never quite been able to see why a ‘Left’ dictatorship is morally superior to any other kind. But simplicity is what these children demand and they are determined to make the world simple, even if the facts refuse to accord with their theories. Why does youth so often reject the delights of complexity and variety? Only the wilder Cornelius boy seems to take after his mother in that respect, and I would guess his mind is now permanently influenced by drugs. Today’s children do not even know how to use drugs properly. For that I do not entirely blame them. The quality is so poor. As with air-travel, once you make something available to the masses, you immediately observe the decline of quality. The cocaine I occasionally buy these days is so adulterated I might as well be putting Vim and Lemsip up my nose! This is one criticism I would never make of Egypt, at least in 1926.
Goldfish’s interest in our film was given extra fire by his desire to see the Hope Dempsey and her captain swiftly gone from US waters, while Mrs Goldfish, for her part, was hoping to see the back of Gloria Cornish.
The ship, its cargo, crew and passengers, were well insured. If we all went to the bottom everyone who survived ashore would actually benefit. In spite of the experience of Ben Hur Goldfish felt our picture could be a considerable success. Interest in Tutenkhamun had awakened again with more stories and curses and treasure and he saw considerable public interest, so he gave us his blessing but still on condition that the film be shot so Valentino could be substituted for me if he thought the footage we brought back merited it. When I demurred, he took me aside, man to man, speaking quietly in Yiddish. ‘Listen, Max. This could be your biggest chance yet to get everything you want. Do you follow me?’
Perhaps, I said, but I saw no reason for Valentino substituting for me.
‘Max. You’re a professional. Must I say more?’
I admitted I had let the problem get out of perspective and we shook hands. Goldfish could always charm me. At the end of the meeting he announced that he was allowing us a budget large enough to finance the whole venture which was adequate but not generous. It would be extended if we needed to build interiors on our return. I would get to play some important scenes with Mrs Cornelius and, even if that Italian sweetboy were to replace me, my time with her would make the experience worthwhile. There was also some talk of taking Valentino to Egypt once we had sufficient material ‘in the can’ and he’d completed The Son of the Sheik. Needless to say, Mrs Cornelius was more excited by this prospect than I. We had a brief meeting with the off-handed little gonsel, in which he smoked a great many perfumed cigarettes and constantly referred to himself in the third person. He seemed sickly, even then, still a posturing braggart, full of boasts and false claims. We had nothing in common and hated one another on sight! I was not flattered by Goldfish’s assertion that I was a good substitute for Valentino, who looked twice my age. He had already ruined himself with over-indulgence. But the producer’s brief enthusiasm enabled me to get the papers I needed for Esmé and Jacob Mix. It was not everything I hoped for but it was the best Goldfish could offer me. Officially Esmé would be Mrs Cornelius’s dresser until we reached Alexandria, then, if Seaman so desired, she would be used in an acting role. Mr Mix, at present my valet, was on the manifest as the second projectionist, for which he had had some occasional training. I would entrust him with the cans of film I had removed from the abandoned DeLuxe Studio. He would show them on board. I had not yet had a proper chance to see any of them and planned to watch them to while away my leisure time at sea. I returned to our little house full of my success and was disappointed by their responses. Neither Esmé nor Mr Mix seemed as pleased with their positions as I expected and eventually the negro admitted he, too, had more professional ambitions in the direction of acting. I found this amusing and patted him on his broad shoulder. ‘Well, well, old fellow, I’m sure there’ll be an opening for a Nubian or two once we begin shooting!’
The rest of our crew - cameraman, technicians and an elderly male make-up artist known as ‘Grace’ - was to be a relatively small one. In those days the Unions had not imposed their ridiculous quotas, so we would be able to recruit local labour when we needed it. Seaman preferred to work with a small unit. The chief cameraman, a small, saturnine Serbian with a huge nose, known as ‘O.K.’ Radonic because for years that was the only English he had ever been known to speak, had worked on many prestigious pictures and was recognised in Yugoslavia as a pioneer of documentary film. Radonic and Seaman had already made A Princess Confesses and Siege together but were unhappy with their Hollywood work. ‘The camera,’ said Radonic to me, ‘is an instrument of sensuality and subtle narrative. These dogs make of it no more than a showman’s toy. They are unfair to their own people.’ To which he added in English, ‘OK?’ I could not entirely agree with him but sympathised, for they too sought something which would stretch their creative talents. I knew what it was to grow bored with easy success. Queen of the Nile, as it was now called, would be my chance to emulate my hero Griffith. The story was still mine and the choice of backgrounds would largely be my responsibility. I felt that if I never made another picture, this one must stand as my masterpiece! I would be designer and writer, carving a milestone in my own career and in the history of motion pictures themselves. With that ambition accomplished, I could turn my attention to directing and from there to my true vocation again, dedicating myself to the engineering achievements necessary to ensure the New Millennium.