Remake

She turned and smiled delightedly at me. “I know that line. It’s from Singin’ in the Rain,” she said, pleased. “I didn’t mean the movie. It’s them editing it like that.” She looked back up at the screen. Or down. It was doing an aerial now, and all you could see were the tops of Fred and Ginger’s heads.

“I take it you don’t like Vincent’s edit program?” I said.

“Vincent?”

I nodded toward the baseball cap, who was off in a corner doing a line of illy. “Doesn’t he remind you of Vincent Price in House of Wax?”

The edit program was back to quick cuts — the steps, Fred’s face, close-up of a step. The baby carriage scene from Potemkin.

“In more ways than one,” I said.

“Fred Astaire always insisted they shoot his dances in full-length shot and a continuous take,” she said without taking her eyes off the screen. “He said it’s the only way to film dancing.”

“He did, huh? No wonder I like the original better.” I looked at her. “I’ve got it up in my room.”

And that made her turn away from Ginger’s flashingly cut feet, shoulder, hair, and look at me. It was the same intent, focused look she had had watching the screen, and I felt the edges start to blur.

“No cuts, no camera angles,” I said rapidly. “Nothing pre-programmed. Full-length and continuous take. Want to come up and take a look?”

She looked back at the freescreen. Fred’s chest, his face, his knees. “Yes,” she said. “You’ve got the real movie? Not colorized or anything?”

“The real thing,” I said, and led her up the stairs.

RUBY KEELER: [Nervously]

I’ve never been in a man’s apartment before.

ADOLPHE MENJOU: [Pouring champagne] You’ve never been in Hollywood before. [Handing her glass] Here, my dear, this will relax you.

RUBY KEELER: [Hovering near door] You said you had a screen test application up here. Shouldn’t I fill it out?

ADOLPHE MENJOU: [Turning down lights] Later, my dear, after we’ve had a chance to get to know each other.

“I’ve got anything you could want,” I told Alis on the way up. “All the ILMGMs and the Warner and Fox-Mitsubishi libraries, at least everything that’s been digitized, which should be everything you’d want.” I led her down the hall. “The Fred Astaire-Ginger Rogers movies were Warner, weren’t they?”

“RKO,” she said.

“Same thing.” I keyed the door. “Here we are,” I said, and opened it onto my room.

She took a trusting step inside and then stopped at the sight of the arrays covering three walls with their mirrored screens. “I thought you said you were a student,” she said.

Now was not the time to tell her I hadn’t been to class in over a semester. “I am,” I said, leaning past her so she’d step forward into the room, and picking up a shirt. “Clothes all over the floor, bed’s not made.” I lobbed the shirt into the corner. “Andy Hardy Goes to College.”

She was looking at the digitizer and the fibe-op feed hookup. “I thought only the studios had Crays.”

“I do work for them to help pay for tuition,” I said. And keep me in chooch.

“What kind of work?” she said, looking up at her own face’s reflection in the silvered screens, and now was not the time to tell her I specialized in procuring popsy for studio execs either.

“Remakes,” I said. I smoothed out the blankets. “Sit down.”

She perched on the edge of the bed, knees together.

“Okay,” I said, sitting down at the comp. I asked for the Warner library menu. “The Continental’s in Top Hat, isn’t it?”

“The Gay Divorcee,” she said. “Near the end.”

“Main screen, end frame and back at 96,” I said. Fred and Ginge leaped onto the screen and up over a table. “Rew at 96 frames per sec,” and they jumped down off the table and back through breakfast to the ballroom.

I rew’d to the beginning of the number and let it go. “Do you want sound?” I said.

She shook her head, her face already intent on the screen, and maybe this hadn’t been such a great idea. She leaned forward, and the same concentrated look she’d had downstairs came into her face, as if she were trying to memorize the steps. I might as well not have been in the room, which hadn’t exactly been the idea in bringing her up here.

“Menu,” I said. “Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers movies.” The menu came up. “Aux screen one, Swingtime,” I said. There was usually a big dance finale in these things, wasn’t there? “End frame and back at 96.”