Remake

There weren’t any telltale matte lines or pixel shadows, and when I did a noise check, there weren’t any signs of uneven degradation. Which didn’t prove anything. I could do undetectable paste-ups with a fifth of William Powell’s Thin Man rye in me.

I needed more data. Preferably something full-length and a continuous take, but Fred was still in litigation. I called up the list of musicals again. Alis had been wearing a bustle the day I went out to see her, which meant a period piece. Not Meet Me in St. Louis. She had said there wasn’t any dancing in it. Showboat, maybe. Or Gigi.

I went through both of them, looking for parasols and backlit hair, but it took forever, and ff’ing made me dizzy.

“Global search,” I said, pressing my hand to my eyes, “dance routines,” and spent the next ten minutes explaining to the comp what a dance routine was. “Forward at 40,” I said, and took it through Carousel. The program worked okay, though this was still going to take forever. I debated eliminating ballet, decided the comp wouldn’t have any more idea than Hollywood did of what it was, and added an override instead.

“Instant to next routine, cue,” I said. “Next, please,” and called up On Moonlight Bay.

Bay was another Doris Day toothfest, so even with the override it took far too long to get through it, but at least I could “next, please,” when I saw there weren’t any bustles.

“Vernon and Irene Castle,” I said. No, that was a Fred Astaire. The Harvey Girls?

I got more legalese. Was everybody in litigation? I called up the menu, scanning it for period pieces.

“In the Good Old Summertime,” I said, and then was sorry. It was a Judy Garland, and Alis had been right, there wasn’t any dancing in Judy Garland movies. I tried to remember what else she’d said that night in my room and what movies she’d asked for. On the Town.

It wasn’t in litigation. But her nemesis, Gene Kelly, was in it, leaping around in a white sailor suit and making it look hard. “Next, please,” I said, and Ann Miller appeared in a low-cut dress, apple cheeks, and Marilyn figure, tapping her way between dinosaur skeletons. Even with makeup and digital padding, Alis couldn’t have been mistaken for her, and I had the feeling that was important, but the clatter of Ann’s taps was making my head pound. I “next, please” ’d to the Meadowville number Alis had said she liked, Vera-Ellen and the overenergetic Gene Kelly in a softshoe. Vera-Ellen was a lot more Alis’s size, she even had a hair ribbon, but she wasn’t Alis either. “Next, please.”

Gene Kelly did one of his overblown ballets, Frank Sinatra and Betty Garrett danced a tango with an Empire State Building telescope, and Ann Miller, in an even more low-cut dress, showed up, and then Vera-Ellen. Wearing the green weskit and black skirt Alis had worn to the party that first night. I sat up.

Vera-Ellen took Gene Kelly’s hand and spun away from the camera. “Freeze,” I said. “Enhance,” and there was no mistaking that backlit hair, and sure enough, when she spun back out of the turn, it was Alis, reaching her hand out, smiling delightedly at Gene.

I asked for a menu of Vera-Ellen movies. “Belle of New York,” I said.

Legalese. Fred Astaire. Ditto Three Little Words. I finally got The Kid from Brooklyn, and went through it number by number, but Alis wasn’t in it, and there must be some other logic at work here. What? Gene Kelly? He’d been in both Singin’ in the Rain and On the Town.

“Anchors Aweigh,” I said.

Gene’s costars were Kathryn Grayson and Jose Iturbi, neither of whom were noted for their dancing ability, so I didn’t expect there to be any production numbers. There weren’t. Gene Kelly danced with Frank Sinatra, with a chorus line of sailors, with a cartoon mouse.

It was another of his overblown fantasy numbers, this time with an animated background and Tom and Jerry and a lot of pre-CG special effects, but he and Tom the Mouse danced a soft-shoe side by side, hand and paw nearly touching, and it almost looked like the real thing.

I accessed Vincent, decided I didn’t want this on the feed, and punched in a key override, wishing there was a way I could find out whether Heada was standing guard without opening the door.

There wasn’t, but it was okay. She wasn’t there. I locked the door in case she came back, and went down to the party. Vincent was demonstrating a new program to a trio of breathless Marilyns.

“Give it a command,” Vincent said, pointing at the screen, where Clint Eastwood, dressed in a striped poncho and a concho-banded hat, was sitting in a chair, his hands at his sides like a puppet’s. “Go ahead.”

The Marilyns giggled. “Stand,” one of them said daringly. Clint got woodenly to his feet.