“I don’t think we need the dream sequence,” Colton said.
“But that’s the high point of the picture.”
“Why? Huxley’s wife is dead, and he knows it. What does a dream have to do with it?”
“Because of the emphasis.” Feldman leaned forward eagerly. “ Imagine this: A pink haze fills the air. Huxley is standing in a field full of, well, green stuff. His wife comes toward him, dressed in white. He reaches for her, but she floats away. He goes after her, but she stays just out of reach. It’ll be a dance sequence. We’ll get Lois Harper and Donelle…Torpenheim is writing the score…
At the end of it, Huxley is standing by his wife’s grave, looking down. Then he wakes up—and she’s really gone. A movie moment, I promise you.”
“Why does it have to be a dream? Why can’t you show Huxley’s thoughts—maybe a retrospective of their marriage…?
“Because a dream gives it more emphasis. A dream gives it more expression. A dream—”
Just then Colton’s white phone rang. He picked it up, while glancing at his ID list. “Jimmy? This is really a bad time—What?... Brick Butler?... He does? Well, I don’t think the public is ready for another ‘Star Cars’ movie…oh, he wrote the script…”
And just then Colton’s red phone rang. “Miss March, what?...Will I see Romulus Raven? Absolutely not. In the first place, I’m talking to my director. In the second place, I’ve got Jimmy Cox on the phone, and he thinks he can get us Brick Butler. In the third place I don’t ever want to see that son-of-a-bitch again. Throw him out.” Colton hung up the red phone. He said into the white receiver “Jimmy, I’ll get back to you on that.” He hung the white phone up too. Then he looked at Feldman and shook his head. “Romulus Raven used to work for me. He was one of the biggest directors in the business.”
Feldman frowned. “I never heard of him.”
“No…you wouldn’t have. Raven doesn’t direct anymore, and he never will again. He makes the rounds of the studios now, begging for work, any kind—even a janitor’s job. Which he can’t do and can’t keep.”
“It seems to be a very personal thing with you.”
“Personal? Yes…I suppose it is. I guess you never heard of Lorna Laverne either.”
“I don’t think we need the dream sequence,” Colton said.
“But that’s the high point of the picture.”
“Why? Huxley’s wife is dead, and he knows it. What does a dream have to do with it?”
“Because of the emphasis.” Feldman leaned forward eagerly. “ Imagine this: A pink haze fills the air. Huxley is standing in a field full of, well, green stuff. His wife comes toward him, dressed in white. He reaches for her, but she floats away. He goes after her, but she stays just out of reach. It’ll be a dance sequence. We’ll get Lois Harper and Donelle…Torpenheim is writing the score…
At the end of it, Huxley is standing by his wife’s grave, looking down. Then he wakes up—and she’s really gone. A movie moment, I promise you.”
“Why does it have to be a dream? Why can’t you show Huxley’s thoughts—maybe a retrospective of their marriage…?
“Because a dream gives it more emphasis. A dream gives it more expression. A dream—”
Just then Colton’s white phone rang. He picked it up, while glancing at his ID list. “Jimmy? This is really a bad time—What?... Brick Butler?... He does? Well, I don’t think the public is ready for another ‘Star Cars’ movie… oh, he wrote the script…”
And just then Colton’s red phone rang. “Miss March, what?...Will I see Romulus Raven? Absolutely not. In the first place, I’m talking to my director. In the second place, I’ve got Jimmy Cox on the phone, and he thinks he can get us Brick Butler. In the third place I don’t ever want to see that son-of-a-bitch again. Throw him out.” Colton hung up the red phone. He said into the white receiver “Jimmy, I’ll get back to you on that.” He hung the white phone up too. Then he looked at Feldman and shook his head. “Romulus Raven used to work for me. He was one of the biggest directors in the business.”
Feldman frowned. “I never heard of him.”
“No…you wouldn’t have. Raven doesn’t direct anymore, and he never will again. He makes the rounds of the studios now, begging for work, any kind—even a janitor’s job. Which he can’t do and can’t keep.”
“It seems to be a very personal thing with you.”
“Personal? Yes…I suppose it is. I guess you never heard of Lorna Laverne either.”
Feldman thought for a few seconds. “No, I can’t say that I have.”
“She wasn’t famous, but she would have been. She wasn’t a star, but she had star quality. Lorna didn’t have a ‘bad’ side. She photographed beautifully from every angle. The modeling of her face was perfect. When she faced the camera directly her eyes and lips made love to it. Lorna was a natural actress, and never had a lesson. She knew exactly when to move; exactly what to say and how to say it. I was bringing her on, little by little. Bit parts first. Then would have come supporting roles. Finally the perfect vehicle to introduce her as a star.” Colton paused and closed his eyes.
“What happened?” Feldman prodded.
“Romulus Raven,” Colton growled. “She fell in love with him. And he fell in love with her—as far as a rat bastard like that could fall in love with anyone. He decided to set up his own studio and use Lorna’s beauty and talent to make it succeed. She had a contract with us—all actors and actresses did then—but there was a loophole that made it possible for her to buy her way out if she wanted to leave. Raven put up the money—he had it then. She was free, and they were married.”
“So? Did Romulus Raven open a studio? Did they make a picture?”
“Yes,” Colton said grimly. “It was a piece of junk called ‘Log Cabin’, about a pioneer family. The concept was all wrong, the editing was choppy, the script was terrible, and the actors were worse. Except for Lorna, of course. She was great. But she couldn’t save that movie. Raven put a fortune into that movie and so did his investors. They lost it all. Then everything went to pieces.
Raven always had a drinking problem, but he’d kept it under control. Now he was dunk all the time. One day he was driving—drunk, of course—down a busy business street, at better than sixty miles an hour. Lorna was with him. He went through a red light and collided with another car. He wasn’t hurt, and neither was the other driver. Lorna—Lorna—”
“Was she killed?”
“No. In a way it was worse than that. There were no airbags in those days. Lorna’s head went right through the windshield. Her lovely face was destroyed.”
Feldman slumped in his chair. “Oh my God,” he whispered.
“The plastic surgeons did what they could, but it wasn’t much. Not the smallest part of Lorna’s beauty could be restored. She would be horribly scarred for the rest of her life.” Colton sighed heavily and continued. “The marriage was over. Now that she couldn’t be useful to him any longer, Ravel didn’t want Lorna. He left her with nothing. Ravel became a drunken panhandler.
“What happened to Lorna?” Feldman asked, not sure he really wanted to know.
“She works here.”
“”She does?”
“Lorna’s a seamstress in our costume department. If you’ve been back there you might have seen her. A woman who always wears a scarf and never raises her head.”
“I don’t think…” then Feldman realized he had noticed a woman wearing a scarf; noticed her only because she had lifted her face slightly and he had seen the disfiguring scars. “Look, plastic surgery has come a long way in the past few years. Maybe there’s something that could be done now…”
Colby looked wearily at Feldman. “Don’t you think I know that? Don’t you think I’ve tried? I’ve taken Lorna to every doctor in the country who promised any sort of hope. The most anyone can do is give her a sort of mask. But I haven’t given up. Maybe someday…” He dropped his head.
That’s when Feldman realized the truth. “You’re in love with her. You were in love with her then, and you’re in love with her now.”
Colby nodded. “And I’ve got a wife and three kids.” Then he straightened up, his face impassive. Once more he was a businessman. Now about that dream sequence—”
“No,” Feldman said gently. “I’ve changed my mind. Tragedy is too real to cheapen it with a dream.”