excerpts from

The Twenties
(working title)

by j jackson




I am born in 1890 in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania and by the time I am thirty years old, I have amassed a small fortune which is invested in a multi-faceted business and in stocks and bonds. I am a genius at predicting the rise and fall of stock and commodities prices, but my real interest is in filmmaking, which I have ignored too long until now. The technology is beginning to move beyond my understanding so that if I do not all but forget about the damned money-making and get on with that which is most important to me, I may be too late to apply the advantage that I have and I may well be passed on by.

[The advantage that a filmmaker has is that he--and now, and then, she--is not confined to one place and time, but is free to move about throughout history, at whim and will.]

As to my past before 1920, I have prepared for this current life well, but it is a lot of boring detail which I will leave to be exposed piecemeal as it becomes relevant to the making of my films. [For example, I invented the sound film in 1916 (based upon work done in the mid-twenties in a quite different manifestation of reality), well ahead of its appointed time, but I have chosen to delay its revelation until now, so that the research division of my company, a team of overly-paid (in order to assure their silence and thus my secrecy) scientists and technicians, would have the time to develop the process to a state of near perfection.] Now, for my first film, Mirielle's War, a story about a French girl's young life before and during WWI, I use the technology to astound the world, which has absolutely no inclination of what is about to happen.

A little girl I meet at an isolated train station in the desert on my way to California suggests my second film. She asks me if it's true that I make moving pictures, I can't remember why she asks it, someone must have told her, one of the crew, maybe, and I tell her, yes, I do. She says she's never seen one, and I can believe it, living out there in the middle of nowhere. But she's read about them. She reads a lot, she says, it's the only thing to do unless you want to run around the desert like the crazies.

She has a snake, a rattler, in a box that she shows me. When she first opens the box, I jump back, afraid, as the snake begins to rattle. I don't like being taken by surprise and so I remain most of the time cool and calm, but this is one of those rare incidents where I reveal my true and anxious inner self. I look at her intensely, examining her intent. It seems she does this on purpose. She is cool and calm, intensely abstract, and yet personable, in a way that is both distant and immediate. She is in control of her situations. Living in the desert, out in the middle of nowhere, teaches you, of necessity, to be in control, I guess. She uses the snake to catch others off-guard, to assert her authority. When she sees me regain my composure and look again into the box, demanding of myself that I be brave and face the monster, because she can, she tells me that the snake is harmless, that her grandfather removed its poison glands. I lean in a little closer. It still might strike at you, she says, and if it hits you it'll hurt for a few days (she reveals a two-pronged scar on her forearm), but it can't kill you or make you sick.

She wants me to take her to California with me. Apparently, she has asked others in our traveling party and they have referred her to me. She says she can't afford the train ticket. I ask her if she wants to be in the movies, but she says no, she wants to see the ocean. I don't dare take her with us, of course, even if it's true that her grandfather doesn't care and she has no other living relatives. I tell her I'll stop by on the way back east and I really intend to do this, but I don't. But I use some of her ideas, her stories that she recounts in brief, and her character to make a film about two guys who don't know what they're doing making films in a milieu of people who don't know much more than they do--except for a few people like D.W. Griffith.

This film, my second, is my tribute to that little desert girl. (Everyone thinks it's a tribute to D.W.) I wish, when I started making it, that she had wanted to be in the movies, because I would have cast her. I thought about her the whole time I was writing the screenplay. To play her part, I cast Marta Tilly, a young first generation American actress from New York who had then a remarkable ability to change her appearance to play any age from six to sixteen. I discovered her during one of the several traveling auditions that we staged looking for children for Mirielle's War. I didn't cast her in that picture because she had never acted before and was a bit shy and I didn't feel I had the time to work with her.

...

My fifth film, piano, is much like a much later remake, except that they will get the fantasy slightly wrong. It's a great compliment, I guess, that people will eventually remake my films. But they always get them slightly wrong.

...

In the 1990s, television, the CCC [Classic Cinema Channel], will replay and study my films.

...

Alice Guy, a French secretary for Gaumont, was the first narrative filmmaker and director. She persuaded Gaumont to allow her to make films, which were then only short depictions of real life subjects. He agreed, provided her work as a secretary didn't suffer. She worked until noon, then went out to make films, while the essential daylight she needed for the exposure was still available, then she returned to the office to work late into the night. She invented the close-up before D.W. Griffith, who got the credit for it. She was the first movie producer int he world and the first to woman to run a motion picture studio.

Lois Weber, one of the most important silent film directors, was born and raised in Pittsburgh, PA, only blocks from where I grew up. I never knew her. She was a suffragette, who preached her own brand of the truth. When presented with the opportunity to make films, she felt that it would be a good opportunity to advance her life's purpose. She was the first American woman to direct a film, and the first to use a triple-split screen. With a salary of $5,000.00 per week, she was Universal Studio's highest paid director in 1916.

Dorothy Arzner was the only female studio director after 1929. By this time the men were convinced that filmmaking was not the novelty they thought it would remain. They saw the money and they wrested the business away from the women, who were a major influence in the early days of filmmaking. Dorothy often dressed similarly to men, and her hard-set face no doubt made her a hit among the men, who considered her a worthy competitor. She invented the boom mike from a fishing rod for Paramount's first talkie, The Wild Party, in 1929.

...

from a biography of Jason Kravitz, circa 1960

In one of those mysteries that can never be understood by the rational mind, he was fifty-four when he began his theatrical career in 1900 and fifty-four when he died in 1954. [Virginia Woolf wrote about him in Orlando, but she changed his name and denied that it was he who was her model, that it would have been a physical impossibility.]

...

In the train on the way home from the West Coast, Rose and Jason sit side by side in an almost empty car. Rose, seeming more cautious than is at all necessary, given the lack of anyone within hearing distance, leans toward Jason and whispers, "Do you want to know a secret?"

"Certainly. I always want to know secrets."
"You can't ever tell anyone this."
"Okay."
"Ever."
"Certainly not. You know me. You know you can absolutely trust me. When Have I ever betrayed you?"
"I know. But this is important. This is very delicate."
"Well, then maybe you shouldn't be telling me, if you're betraying promises."
"I'm not betraying anything. I promised I wouldn't tell Jake. That's all I promised."
"Well. Okay then."
"You remember the day that we went out sightseeing when you were working on the building plans?"
"Yes."

FADE TO:

While Jacobs, Jason, and Roberts conduct their business, the women go off on a day out sightseeing. They visit a restaurant with a patio overlooking the docks, where they have lunch, sip wine, and talk women talk, which the two girls engage in in a subtle tongue-in-cheek manner to appease the married woman with them. But suddenly not having anything to do after they had been pre-occupied (the two girls, that is) with the business of the trip, they let their guards down and have a few white wines too many. During the course of their conversation, Jacobs' wife, obviously becoming inebriated, broaches the subject of the girls' sexuality. At first, she is cautious. Despite the alcohol's influence, she realizes the delicate nature of the subject matter.

"So," Jacob's wife says, "I hear that you two are..."

They look at her, not really daring to believe what she is about to say, but intuiting it. After a pause, Gwen asks "What?"

"You know. You're...together."

Rose, the more timid of the two, looks away, but Gwen seems amused, yet startled that Mrs. Jacobs dares to mention it.

"Yes. We're together."
"Gwendolyn!" Rose says, looking toward her briefly, then quickly away again.
"What? We are."
Rose stonewalls her.

Through a series of half sentences, Mrs. Jacobs (who is hardly any older than the two girls are, but who gives off that unconscious air of cultural superior maturity that young Jewish women find so easy) manages to put the girls, at least Gwen, totally at ease, the fact that they have been drinking also playing not so small a part.

"I mean, " Mrs. Jacobs probes, "...I mean..." As Rose continues to look away, Gwen awaits her words, which finally come in whispers "...how does that work?" The idea is so startling to all three that even Rose has to look back at the other two. She looks at Mrs. Jacobs as if to say, "I can't believe you said that!"
Gwen giggles, which causes Mrs. Jacobs to smile and Rose to reach across the table and hit Gwen on the arm. Gwen pulls back and asks, incredulously, "How does it work?"
"I mean, you know... How does..." she puts her hands together in front of her as if beginning a prayer. "How..." They girls both stare at her, Rose looking almost frightened, but Gwen entertained.
When Mrs. Jacobs can't seem to find the words, Gwen asks, "Yes?"
"How does it work?"
"Very nicely, thank you," Gwen responds in mock politeness.
Rose says, "Gwendolyn!"
Gwen and Mrs. Jacobs laugh as Rose turns away again.
"How do I say this?" Mrs. Jacobs asks. "I mean..."

Gwen stares at her with genuine interest. After a thoughtful pause, Mrs. Jacobs suddenly bursts out "The parts don't fit." as she puts her two index fingers side by side and rubs them lengthwise against each other. They laugh together again.

"Of course they do," Gwen says. They laugh again.
Rose ignores them. She tries to hide her blush.
"Well. How?"
"I don't know what you mean. All kinds of parts fit together in all kinds of ways."
"I mean the equipment isn't there."
"Oh," Gwen says, pretending to be enlightened to a fundamental difficulty, as if for the first time. "Well," she adjusts her body in her chair, leaning forward onto the table as if to explain long-guarded secrets, and Mrs. Jacobs does the same in response. "You see, there are parts and there are parts."
"I don't understand."
"Well..." she sticks out her tongue a very small distance and wiggles it very slightly and slowly up and down. Rose looks at her exactly at that moment and looks rapidly straight away again.
"Oh," Mrs. Jacobs says, looking away also, all of a sudden losing her bold initiative. "And then they are other parts too, if you really want to know..."
"No," Rose interrupts. "That won't be necessary."
"You mean," Gwen says, "your husband never..." The way that Mrs. Jacobs rolls her eyes toward her without turning her head causes her to stop mid-sentence. A blush rises in the older woman's cheeks.
"Why, no," she says. "Of course not."
"Never?"
"Never." A slight giggle returns to her voice.
"Oh. Well." Gwen says. "You've got to get him to try it."
They both begin to giggle again.
"He'd never."
"Did you ever ask him?"
"Of course not."
"Well, you should."
"Should I? I wouldn't dare."
"Well, then. It's your loss."
"I guess it is." An awkward pause ensues, during which Mrs. Jacobs has to look away. "I just wanted to know... you know, we don't learn these things. We aren't told anything. I just wanted to know what it was like."
"You want us to show you?"
In exactly the same movement, Rose and Mrs. Jacobs look at Gwen.
"Gwen-do-lyn!" Rose says. But even she has to smile when she sees Mrs. Jacobs dare to start a smile herself.
"Oh. No. I could never do it."
"I'm not suggesting you do it. I'm just asking if you want to watch a demonstration."
Rose gasps and her mouth drops open.

CUT TO the girls' room at the hotel. A bottle of wine is open and nearly empty on a table by the window. Mrs. Jacobs sits in a chair nearby holding an empty wineglass in her hand. The girls are undressing by the bed. Mrs. Jacobs's eyes are fixed on them, as if she doesn't want to watch, but has to, to be polite since she'd agreed to this exhibition.

Rose whispers "I can't believe you're making me do this."
"You want to do it," Gwen whispers back. "Don't be a hypocrite."
The whispers are easily audible to their audience.
"No I do no..."

Her words are cut off as Gwen, who had grabbed her up with an arm around her waist, pulls her to her and engulfs her mouth with her lips. They fall onto the bed. Gwen scrambles to remove their remaining clothes. They do everything Gwen can think of, things they would usually never bother doing, just so that Mrs. Jacobs can be entertained, or educated. Mrs. Jacobs can't move her eyes away from them. She stares uncontrollably, her breathing deepening obviously. She looks as if she'd been running through the city for blocks and blocks to get here and has just arrived. Eventually, she stands with a great deal of difficulty, swaying back and forth a bit. She takes a tentative step toward the bed as she begins to remove her clothing.

CUT TO the next day in the lobby of the hotel. The three women meet for lunch, arriving from opposite directions, Rose and Gwen from near the entrance, Mrs. Jacobs from the stairs. They greet each other, but Mrs. Jacobs will not look directly at either of them. As they walk into the dining room, Mrs. Jacobs leads the way. Gwen elbows Rose as they follow along, nodding at Mrs. Jacobs's back, but Rose pushes her arm away and scowls.

At lunch, the atmosphere is strained, so Gwen tries to lighten up the mood.

"Are we having wine?" She asks.
"Oh no!" Mrs. Jacobs says. They all laugh, Rose and Mrs. Jacobs despite themselves.
"Why not?"
"I had too much yesterday," Mrs. Jacobs says. "I don't feel so well."
"Oh, I'm sorry."

The lady smiles at her, but weakly and without direct eye contact.

"You're not sorry, are you?"
Mrs. Jacobs blushes.
"I know you can't be sorry. You said you wanted to know."
"Gwen," Rose says quietly. Gwen looks at her, breaking off the intense stare that she had been directing at Mrs. Jacobs down-turned head. "Leave it alone," Rose says.
"No," Mrs. Jacobs says, looking up. "I'm not sorry. I'm just..."
"Ashamed?"
"Gwen!" Rose says sharply.
"No. I'm not ashamed. Just embarrassed."
"Good. Embarrassed is okay. Embarrassed is good. It's cute."
The two women look into each other's eyes, ignoring a staring Rose.
"You won't tell my husband, will you? He'd never understand."
"Of course not, honey. We'd never do that to you. But you should try to get him to do other things."
"Maybe. Maybe I'll try."

CUT TO the train car. Rose and Jason sit quietly side by side. Jason look straight ahead with a wry smile on his face. Rose watches his expression closely.

...

All of this happened a very long time ago and I only know about it because I talked to a lot of people, and some of them it happened to, but most of them were people who talked to people it happened to, or they talked to people who talked to people. One of those people was Mary Rose Evans. I got a lot of information from her, because she was in a position to know almost everything. She was born in 1890 and first met Jason in 1910, when she was hired as his secretary. She died in 1990 at the age of 100.