“They had a copy of Maltin’s book over at Tower,” Coltrane said.
“These movies aren’t in it?”
Coltrane shook his head.
“Well, if Maltin doesn’t list them, it’s a pretty good sign these things have never been shown on TV.”
“Except maybe since that edition of the book came out,” Coltrane said. “And Maltin himself admits that his book doesn’t include every minor film that ever had only a couple of showings at midnight forty years ago.”
The clerk, who was wearing an Edward Scissorhands T-shirt, pulled another reference book from beneath the desk. This one was called A Worldwide Filmography. It was oversized, battered, and thick. He looked through the pages. “Jamaica Wind. Yep, it exists.”
“I never doubted that.”
“Universal, 1934.”
“Right.”
“Guy Kibbee, William Gargan, Beulah Bondi, Walter Catlett, Rebecca Chance.”
Coltrane felt his pulse increase.
“Sounds like a remake of Rain,” the clerk said.
“What?”
“This is almost the same cast as Rain, but without Joan Crawford.”
“You really do know your movies.”
The clerk, who wore a Mickey Mouse wristwatch, straightened with greater pride. “I try. But I have to tell you – I never heard of this actress here at the end: Rebecca Chance.”
“She had a short career.”
“What else was she in?”
“That other movie I’m trying to find.”
“The Trailblazer? Let’s have a look.” The clerk flipped to near the back of the book. “Yep. Same company. Same year. Bruce Cabot, Hugh Buckler, Heather Angel, Tully Marshall, and…” The clerk made a drumroll with his hands. “Rebecca Chance. Now we’re getting somewhere. The picture was directed by George B. Seitz.”
“Who?”
“A couple of years later, Seitz did The Last of the Mohicans. Matter of fact, some of these actors were in that movie.”
“You continue to amaze me.”
“In this case, it’s not so amazing.”
The clerk pointed toward a row of film posters above the shelves of videos on the opposite side of the long room. One of them, tinted orange, faded, announced THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS – STARRING RANDOLPH SCOTT. Scott, incredibly young, was seen in profile. He held a flintlock rifle and wore a buckskin jacket as well as a coonskin cap. Two Indians fought each other in the background. At the bottom, bold letters proclaimed DIRECTED BY GEORGE B.SEITZ.
“A friend of mine’s a George B. Seitz fanatic. He gave me that poster to put up. Personally, I don’t get what’s so special about Seitz’s work. He’s sure not Orson Welles. But my friend’s an expert. He’s the guy to ask.”
15
THE FRAIL, distinguished-looking, white-haired, elderly gentleman had a Vandyke beard and a cane. Bundled in a thick brown cardigan sweater, he was waiting at the metal gate of his home in Sherman Oaks when Coltrane parked in front. The expansive Tudor house was high in the hills, the glinting lights of the valley spread out below.
“I didn’t realize how late it was,” Coltrane said after he shook hands and introduced himself. A cool breeze tugged at his hair. “If I’d thought about it, I never would have let the guy in the video store call you.”
The elderly man made a “think nothing of it” gesture. His voice was reedy. “Sidney knows I don’t go to bed until two or three in the morning. Anybody who wants to talk about the work of George B. Seitz is welcome anytime.”
“Actually, Seitz isn’t why I’m here.”
The elderly man looked confused.
“What I’m really interested in is an actress he directed in The Trailblazer.”
“Which actress?”
“Rebecca Chance.”
The elderly man nodded.
“You know about her?” Coltrane asked.
“About her? Not in the least.”
Coltrane felt something deflate inside him. “I guess I’ve bothered you for nothing. I’m sorry. I won’t take up any more of your time.”
“But I’ve seen her work.”
Coltrane froze in the act of turning toward his car.
“You came to talk to me about The Trailblazer. Don’t you think it would be more satisfying if you watched it?”
“Watched it?”
“I don’t have every picture Seitz made. Many of the silents were on film stock that disintegrated before they could be preserved, although I do have copies of the most famous ones, such as The Perils of Pauline, which he wrote before he became a director. The sound pictures he directed are another matter. From Black Magic in ’29 to Andy Hardy’s Blonde Trouble in ’44, the year Seitz died, I’ve managed to track down a print of every film Seitz made.”
The dignified gentleman, who introduced himself as Vincent Toler, escorted Coltrane into his house, the living room of which had a screen behind retractable oak panels at one end and a projection room adjacent to the opposite end, the two rooms linked via a space behind an Andrew Wyeth painting that slid to the side.
Toler, Coltrane learned, was a widower, a retired neurosurgeon who lived alone. He had hated being a neurosurgeon, he explained. “I never wanted to enter medicine, but my father, who was a doctor, bullied me into doing so. What I really wanted was to work in the movies. In what capacity, I had no idea. I just knew that was what I loved, but my father wouldn’t hear of it, and I wasn’t brave enough to stand up to him.” After Toler retired, he had happened to see an Andy Hardy movie on the American Movie Classics channel, had remembered the delight with which he had watched it as a boy, had reexperienced the same delight, and had noticed when viewing the movie on its next AMC showing that the director was George B. Seitz.
That name had meant nothing to him, but when he asked the clerk at a video store he frequented (the same video store to which Coltrane had gone) to find other movies that Seitz had directed, Toler had been delighted to discover that Seitz had directed almost all the Andy Hardy movies and many other movies that Toler recalled fondly from his youth. “I started collecting videos, but some of Seitz’s movies weren’t available on video, so the next step was…” Toler indicated the reel of film that he was attaching to the projector. “It’s been an interesting hobby. You could say that I’m collecting my youth.”
As he finished setting up, Toler explained that Seitz had invented the cliffhanger serial in 1914 and had eventually switched to feature films in 1925, making westerns, mysteries, crime melodramas, and comedies. “He was a professional. His pictures were on schedule and underbudget. More important, he knew how to entertain.”
Settling into a plush chair, Coltrane was surprised that his anticipation of seeing Rebecca Chance move and speak was making him uneasy. After Toler turned off the lights and then turned on the projector, tinny epical music, evocative of rivers, plains, and mountains, obscured the projector’s whir. Simultaneously, a beam of light hit the screen, showing a brilliant black-and-white image of a hand that opened a book and revealed the title, The Trailblazer, with Seitz’s “directed by” credit below the title. Coltrane gripped the upholstered arms of his chair as the cast list appeared. There wasn’t any separate card for the star; rather, all the actors’ names appeared together on a list, with the star’s name at the top. Rebecca Chance’s was the sixth name down. Seeing it made Coltrane lean forward.
Writers. Cameraman. As the hand continued to turn pages, the music built to a dramatic peak, and all at once, Coltrane was startled by the last of the credits.
“Produced by Winston Case?” Coltrane said in shock.