“What kind do you think?” she says. “He needs publicity stills. Poster shots. You know.”
“Nudes?” Sylvia says.
“For Christ sake,” Leni says. “You are unbelievable. Wake up, will you? Look where you are. This is what we do here. This is our business. Nudes? What the hell do you think he wants?”
She heads for the grand stairway and not knowing what else to do, Sylvia follows her, but once they’re upstairs, instead of going into the theatre, Leni turns left, heads down the corridor to another stairway and keeps ascending to a third floor. And like some dim apostle, too confused and maybe scared to walk away alone, Sylvia tails behind. At the landing, they swing past a huge metal door at the top that has the words Editing Suites, Do Not Enter stenciled across it in red block letters. Leni cuts a sharp left and starts jogging up a narrower spiral stairwell made of some black, cold metal. It empties into a small foyer with high ceilings and walls painted scarlet. Hung on the walls is a series of framed and matted old movie posters. Sylvia recognizes Diary of a Lost Girl and Pandora’s Box and The Last Laugh, but then there are a couple in German that she’s not familiar with. The far wall of the foyer is a set of huge, wooden double doors. Near the top of the left door, in the same red lettering as downstairs, it reads Studio A, but someone has spray-painted a fuzzy black line through this and written Henrik Galeen Memorial Studio underneath in this childish, cursive scrawl. The lettering ran before it could dry and each word drips downward toward the floor. Above the doors is tacked a cardboard sign that reads Hot Set.
Leni says, “Get ready for the screaming,” then without waiting for any response she walks up, shoves a door open like a storm trooper, and charges inside.
Sylvia hears Hugo scream, “Son of a bitch,” followed immediately by someone else yelling, “Cut, cut it now, hold up,” and then a general chorus of moaning and cursing.
Sylvia looks back to the stairwell, but hears Leni say, “Oh, God, I did it again, didn’t I?” in this barely sarcastic voice.
“Get over here,” Hugo’s yelling. “Someone take hold of her. Bring her over to me.”
“Let’s break for ten,” a new voice sounds, followed immediately by Hugo shouting, “Who said break? Hans, what do you think …” and his voice trails off and for a couple seconds Sylvia gets only mumbling and an undercurrent of machine-ish noise, kind of a whirring hum, like her mother’s old refrigerator used to make. Then half-naked bodies, a half-dozen of them, two men in short terry robes and four women in campy lingerie, walk out of the studio, ignore her, pass by and start down the spiral stairs.
A guy in jeans and a workshirt emerges with coils of thick black cable slung over his shoulder. He says, “They want to see you,” as he passes.
She steps into the studio and is startled by how big it is. The cramped foyer didn’t prepare her for this cavernous loft. It’s like an old-time gymnasium. A lot of wood and brick and a musty smell. The ceiling rises up about two stories and the far wall seems like a football field away. But the place is junky, a museum to disorder. It’s as if someone decided to build a maze out of found trash but got bored halfway through the project. There are clusters of furniture sets and tilting racks jammed to bursting with hanging clothes. There are tables covered with power tools and ragged sheets of plywood stacked against every free piece of wall space. There are ladders and step stools and mismatched chairs, camera tripods mounted on makeshift dollies, microphones hanging from their leads, suspended from ceiling girders. And lights. There’s lighting equipment everywhere and most of it looks like it’s been salvaged and repaired. Everything’s nicked up and dented and heavy-looking. There are reflectors and deflectors and all kinds of filtering equipment.
She’s surprised when she spots three old Panaflex cameras. In this age of high-definition videotape, Hugo sticks with bulky and expensive film. He marches over now, already half-bowed as he moves. It’s weird, there’s this stiffness and oiliness to him at the same time. He grabs Sylvia’s hand and lifts it to his lips, plants a kiss and says, “Forgive my outburst. I didn’t realize we had company.”
“I didn’t know you actually filmed here. I thought this was just the theatre.”
He seems to like her confusion. “We’re a self-contained package,” he says, gesturing with his hand at the room in general. “I insist on control and I learned long ago that the only way to have it is simply to have it.”
He gives a conspiratorial wink as if she’s supposed to understand what he means and continues, “I don’t like dealing with middlemen. Landlords, agents, distributors. The Palace had ample room, so over the years we’ve become more and more self-sufficient. I have my own contract players perpetually on the payroll. Would Jack Warner have spent time chasing after this week’s megastar? Would Louis Mayer? You sign them young, support them, develop your own talent. It’s an investment.”
“So every film gets made right here?” she asks.
He takes her arm and leads her toward a floral couch out on the set itself. “We sometimes film on location, though I dislike outdoor work. It’s a difficult balance, finding the control of the studio without getting too visually boring.”
“And you even market the final product?”
“We have a small holding company. Pretori Distributors. It’s a separate corporate entity.”
“God,” Sylvia says. “It’s amazing. You do the whole show. Soup to nuts.”
“So to speak,” he says, suddenly amused.
“I wanted to thank you,” she says. “For finding the camera—”
“Say no more,” he holds up his hands. “I’m just sorry that we couldn’t retrieve the film. But you’ll take other pictures. You’ll do even better work, I’m sure.”
She looks out and for the first time she notices what must be today’s set, the place they were shooting just minutes ago, before Leni ruined the shot. It’s a huge bedroom. It looks a little like an old hotel room and it has a vague, undefinable style to it, kind of a pseudo-deco. Everything in the room is cut in sharp angles. In the middle of the set is an enormous bed, larger than king-size, maybe custommade.
“You have to remember,” Hugo says, seeing her studying it, “we can manipulate perspective. Within the frame of the camera, I can make this room do anything I want. It looks much smaller with your own eyes. You’ll need to see the finished product on the screen.”
And it suddenly comes home to Sylvia that as she stood out in the foyer, people were lying on this bed, having sex under these lights, being recorded by Hugo’s old cameras, moaning for the benefit of the hanging mikes, sweating and grinding and groping while she stood in the next room.
And then they walked out past her as if they’d just left their desks at some anonymous bureaucracy, as if they’d just broken off from some clerical report to grab a little coffee down in the company cafeteria.
“You know,” Hugo says, “it’s fortuitous that you came to visit today. Yes, it’s actually kismet. I was going to give you a call tonight.”
The job offer. She thought Leni might have been putting her on.
“You were going to call me?” she says.
He nods, brings a hand up to stroke his chin.
“Yes. Absolutely.” He stands up, paces to the set, turns to face her. “All my career I’ve trusted my instincts. And rarely have they let me down. Surely never when the hunch has been this strong.”
“The hunch,” she says.
“Now, I realize I’ve never actually seen your work. But as always, my need for a feeling, an intuition, is much stronger than my need for physical evidence.”