“What other way?”
“Well, couldn’t we start the scene with that full shot of me, and then as the speech builds come in closer and closer until we’re just on my face when I begin crying? We’ve got the footage, Hank. It’s just a question of putting it together.”
“How can I do that? This is the way he wants it.”
“You could say you just did it to get his reaction.”
“With that nut? He’d jump through the ceiling.”
“Or you could sneak it in with the rest of the stuff, the next time you—”
“Gilly, that’s impossible. This is his picture, don’t you understand?”
“Yes, but it’s my scene,” she said earnestly. “I don’t think you know how much this means to me, Hank.”
He studied her silently for a moment. “Maybe I do,” he answered. “Let me think about it.”
He thought about it for several days, and then decided to take the chance. He went through the early rushes again and began the scene with the full shot Gillian had suggested, carefully examining the footage and going from that to a medium shot, and then a close shot, tighter and tighter as the speech gained momentum, cutting back every now and then to the male star reacting on the bench, but for the most part staying with Gillian, closer and closer, full face and profile, finally choosing a tight shot of her eyes as she began crying, and then cutting back to the star on the bench, realization crossing his face as the scene faded. Gillian was on the screen for almost the full five minutes, and for the major part of that time in close-up. Hank spliced the revised scene in ahead of that day’s rushes and then sat back to wait for the explosion when the footage was shown. The director was silent as the scene played. He glanced quickly at Hank when it was over, and then turned his attention to the fresh film. When the lights came on, he lighted a cigarette, shook out the match, and with edged geniality said, “When did you take over the direction of this picture, Hank?”
Hank smiled. “You mean the scene on the bench?”
“Have you directed any others lately?”
“I just wanted to try it on you,” Hank said. “I can still go back to the other way.”
“Okay, you tried it. Now throw it away, okay?”
“Sure,” Hank said. “It was just an experiment.”
“If you don’t mind, I like to handle my own experi—”
“I figure you meant the girl to be in there for a change of pace. We’re on Tony’s face all through the preceding scene, you know.”
“I know, but this happens to be his pay-off scene.”
“Then why’d you take all that footage of the girl? You must have had something in mind.”
“Who remembers what I had in mind? All I know is when I saw the rushes, we discussed the way I wanted it cut, remember? Do you recall that?”
“Sure, I do. But did you see that girl’s coloring? She’s got good coloring, and an interesting face. Look, I may be wrong, but didn’t you want that scene to show what the speech was doing to both of them? If we stay on Tony, we lose half the power of the scene. You shot some beautiful stuff there, kid. It’d be a shame to waste it. That close-up of her eyes is real artistry, I mean it. Reminds me of some of Bergman’s stuff.”
“Ingrid’s?”
“I was thinking of Ingmar, but what’s the difference? Look, it’s your picture. Am I supposed to tell you that one thing you shot is better than another? You did them both, didn’t you? Either way is great. But I think the essence of what you really want to say is in that girl’s face. I know it makes me cry, that’s all. I’ve cut a lot of pictures, kid, but the way you shot that girl... well, it makes me cry.”
“Well, maybe so. But if we lose—”
“And the beauty of what you did is that we get Tony’s reaction at the same time, almost like a double exposure. That takes some doing, believe me, getting a multiple viewpoint on the screen, especially in a crucial scene like this one.”
“You think it comes over? His reaction?”
“Absolutely. And do you know why? Because of what you accomplished with that girl. Do you realize the performance you got out of a bit player? It’s fantastic, that’s all. The camera stays on her most of the time, and it’s still Tony’s pay-off scene. That’s the kind of stuff that makes them sit up and take notice, believe me. The oblique approach, nothing head-on, subtle.”
“Well, we don’t want to get too subtle. If we—”
“Who said it’s too subtle? With those close-ups of the girl’s face? And that shot of her eyes when the tears start rolling? How could that be too subtle? Listen, don’t underestimate yourself.”
“I’m a little worried about that fade at the end, though, aren’t you? I don’t think we stay on Tony long enough to see—”
“Oh, I’ve got footage I can tack onto that. Do you want a longer fade there?”
“I think a longer fade might—”
“Plenty of footage. Longer fade’s no problem.”
“It might round out the scene better, don’t you think?”
“It would make the scene perfect. Just the way it is, with a longer fade.”
“You liked that close-up of the eyes, huh?”
“Beautiful.”
“She really cried, you know. We didn’t use glycerin.”
“It shows. The patience you took with that scene shows.”
“Well, let’s try it this way for now, okay? We’ll see how it fits into the over-all scheme. Maybe we do need a change of pace there, get the hell away from Tony for a while.”
“I figured that was the way you intended it.”
“Probably, but you know how easy it is to forget things. So many damn things going on at once.”
Hank laughed. “Boy, you don’t have to tell me,” he said. “But I think the scene looks just great now, except for that longer fade you want. I’ll give you that. It’ll round things out just the way you want them.”
“I think you’re right.” He nodded, pleased with himself. “About the rushes, Hank. I liked that third take in the saloon, but the color looked a little off to me. Can we get another print on that?’”
The work on the picture consumed Christmas and the New Year, and late in January she went back to the studio to dub in the sound that had been lost on location. She saw the revised scene for the first time then, and rushed out immediately afterward to buy a pair of gold cuff links for Hank, a gift that cost her almost two days’ salary. There was nothing more to do now, nothing but sit and wait and hope the picture would eventually lead to something else. Her agent sent her to audition for a part on Peter Gunn, and she was terribly surprised when she got it because she was hardly the type of curvaceous cutie who paraded across the Peter Gunn screen. But that involved only a few days’ rehearsal and shooting, and then she sat back to wait again. It was February already, and warmer than any California February she could remember. When Ben Cameron called one day and asked if she’d like to go with him on his boat to Catalina, she accepted eagerly. She would have accepted anything that helped to pass the time.
Ben was an actor she saw regularly, a man who’d made his peace with the world and possibly with himself. He’d come to Hollywood after a long run in a Broadway hit, a supporting role to be sure, but one that had got him a screen test and a studio contract. His story was hardly a fresh one. He’d hung around for seven years collecting his salary and doing almost nothing. When his option finally expired, another studio discovered he was an expert horseman and could fall off horses with great realism. He had since fallen off more horses than he could count. He refused to call himself a stunt man. He was an equestrian expert, and he had fallen off horses as an Indian, a Civil War soldier, a Crusader, a renegade outlaw, a Mongolian chieftain, a Foreign Legionnaire, a regimental brigadier, an Arab, and even a mounted policeman. He earned a good living, and he owned a Chris Craft cruiser and a house in Venice in the midst of the beatniks. Every Friday night, he and his friends would gather at his house and he would cook them a lasagna dinner. Lasagna was his specialty. He was a fairly happy guy. He very rarely thought of his days in the theater, or of that single long-run play on Broadway.