View Finder

by Greg Jolley

  The men in the light from the projector looked ghostly. I opened my satchel and found my hand-me-down Tewe director’s lens. Raising it to my eye, I composed the image of their efforts framing the stage.

  A silver cart appeared in the composition from the right side of the stage pushed by a waiter. It was a vignette of white and silver and conflicting shadows on the big screen. The men worked slowly as though familiar with cleaning up after a prior night’s chaos.

  “Just like at home.” I recalled the nightly antics of Father and his friends and studio peers at Mumm’s mansion in Inglewood. I viewfound until the projector went dark, and its faint clicking and humming ended. I pressed the Tewe back inside my satchel and left the room.

  In the dining room, Ezra and Mr. Nash and our 3D cameraman sat before their breakfasts drawing in pencil on the storyboards and discussing the pencil strokes. The rest of the film crew had already headed out, leaving behind cleaned breakfast plates and emptied glasses.

  I sat down beside Ezra and was served breakfast which I quickly ate while listening to two of the men talk of angles, frames, and pans. Their conversation changed to decisions on how best to use the minimal props to satisfy the dual 3D cameras that Mr. Nash would be operating. After a couple of minutes, Mr. Nash asked me to stop bobbing my head to their cadence.

  I stopped tracing the lines of their discussion. I wanted to stay and listen and learn. I also knew that it was better to be with the crew on set doing what I could to be helpful. The technician who had worked all night entered the room. I left with him, leaving the table quietly, not asking to be excused because I didn’t want to interrupt Ezra and Mr. Nash.

  The film set was easy to find—I followed the electrical and water lines from the house into the towering redwoods on the opposite end of the driveway. The cables and hoses led down along brick steps through the fragrant shadows. The redwoods rose like legs up to skirts of green.

  With ferns brushing my pant legs, I safely breathed the musk of the dark red bark.

  I walked on and found the set, the mise en scène, as Mr. Nash preferred, located just past the equipment cases a few yards before a clearing. The 3D cameras were set up, and the lighting panels were arranged. Two boomed microphones were extended—one back into the trees and the second aimed out into the clearing. The script called for capturing the different kinds of wind we hoped would rise from the sea. Mr. Lillison, known to the crew as Lilly, was at the soundboard tapping dials and making notes on a clipboard.

  A trolley track had been laid out for the dual cameras. In the studio, a crane would be used, but this would work fine, and it had to—we had little time.

  Where they would usually wear just one hat, each member of the small crew covered multiple roles while other tasks not vital to the production had been discarded. Mumm and Ezra had selected the members of the team carefully during the production meeting for my short four-minute film.

  Mr. Nash and Ezra stepped from the shadows and ferns and entered the set. Everyone got busier—silent and focused—and settled two steps back from our director, Mr. Nash. I aligned my eyes with the cameras.

  Mumm sat on a kitchen chair in the buttery meadow. She appeared half submerged in the golden grass, her chin tilted down, and her face obscured by fallen hair. Her once-golden hair was dyed black to match the gown she’d chosen for the film. Her aide, Mr. Siad, was shading her with an umbrella. He had a basket in his other hand, and I knew from experience what was in it—Mumm always had the same snacks available when filming—chilled bottles of Perrier and an imported tin of biscuits. Mr. Siad was smiling and trying to chat up Mumm who was keeping her head down.

  Beyond the meadow was a cliff and the ocean. The first breeze of the day stirred the tall grass after humming through the redwoods.

  Mr. Siad carried Mumm’s umbrella and basket off the set and into the darkness of the trees. Mr. Nash looked the crew over, and when he looked through me, I saw that he was smirking, bright-eyed, and pleased to be in a director’s chair for the first time. He spoke crisply to Mr. Carl, our gaffer and grip, and Mr. Carl stepped before the cameras and clacked the slate. Because we only had one day to film the entire four minutes, the schedule called for a sequential shoot.

  We began.

  Shot One: A scenic pan. From the deep blue ocean to the yellow silk meadow. Composition: The end of the meadow draws a horizontal line two-thirds up in the frame.

  Shot Two: Mumm’s chest and falling hair above the swaying grass. Medium-distance shot: The grass, her form, and the ocean.

  Shot Three: Mumm’s lovely and pale arms contrasted against her black dress. Close-up: A three-quarter angle.

  Shot Four: A close-up of her delicate, soft white wrists.

  Shot Five: The grass sways across the bottom third of the shot. Mumm hears something and doesn’t raise her head but turns to the camera—a pull back.

  Shot Six: Mumm’s beautiful face in a close-up. Her eyes are tightened down, and yet still lovely. She unfolds and releases a beautiful smile, a smile of relief.

  Shot Seven: I’m cued and do my slow walk on, my back to the camera as I enter the grass and the sunlight. I walk toward Mumm’s grateful smile. Medium shot: My back enters and progresses from the right.

  Shot Eight: Mumm’s eyes turn to my side, my hip. Her expression changes. It is complex, a mixture of acceptance, and, possibly, understanding. Facial close-up.

  Shot Nine: My back, my slow stride closer to Mumm, who is to my left. She continues to study my approach. Medium shot: Like shot seven.

  Shot Ten: A close-up of my hip and arm and clothing as I walk closer.

  Shot Eleven: Panning, lowering to my hand brushing through the grass holding a coil of rope.

  Mr. Nash called for a fifteen-minute lunch break. Mr. Siad entered the set with Mumm’s umbrella and basket as he had done between the prior eleven shots and reshoots over the past five hours.

  Waiters dressed in white stepped from the redwoods with box lunches and distributed them among our crew. We ate quietly, the wind in the treetops and across the meadow more pronounced than our voices.

  The film crew returned to their places with two minutes left on the break. I watched Mr. Ira Gersham adjusting the lighting panels between Mumm and the redwoods, and I took my mark as Mr. Siad retreated. Mr. Nash called, “Places and quiet,” and Mr. Carl clacked the clapboard before the two cameras.

  “Roll it.”

  A loud and angry voice came down through the trees. It was a voice I knew well—proud, demanding, and barking commands. Because no cut had been called, I stayed in role as did Mumm until the light from the canvas panels shifted and went dull.

  “Cut!” Mr. Nash called. “IM? What the fuck do you think you’re doing? No, what are you doing here?”

  I turned to the tree line where Father had shoved Mr. Gersham and his panels to the ground causing arcs of light to sweep the set and crew. Father took hold of one of the panels, raised it, and changed its angle and the light it reflected. He studied the effect on Mumm’s profile and grimaced and threw the panel back into the tall grass.

  “No one lights her but me!” he yelled.

  Although a cut had been called, Ezra kept the cameras rolling. Mr. Nash was up and out of his canvas chair and striding to Father, his voice equally hot and loud, and I watched Mr. Siad enter the meadow toward Mumm. I discretely let the coil of rope fall from my hand.

  Mr. Siad kneeled before Mumm and untied her in the shade of the umbrella. When Mumm stood, he handed her an opened bottle of her sparkling water. She and Mr. Siad crossed the field of yellow grass and entered the redwoods, neither of them speaking or looking to the loud argument between Father and Mr. Nash. I watched her until the shadows and ferns hid her from view. Her departure was a tactic. It said that we were done with the filming even though the final scene had yet to be shot.

  I HELPED the crew break down the set and equipment after Father stomped off into the redwoods with Mr. Nash at his heels, both of them hollering. It too
k us four trips to get everything up to the house on top of the hill.

  Mumm’s automobile was gone, and I was sure she was behind the wheel beside Mr. Siad. She liked to drive, especially when disturbed. She rarely got a chance because of the contractual rules of the studio and Father’s fear for her safety, or his fear of her being injured and unable to work.

  We loaded the equipment into the trailer and the cars. Father’s limousine was idling in the shade of the atrium where Mumm’s car had been. Father was in the back seat, his door open, his voice loud, ranting.

  “Those two fucking nutcakes! Running off to play while I slave!”

  He was berating the driver who sat stone-faced and nodding in deference.

  I expected to be ordered into Father’s car, but his driver spun the tires on our host’s driveway. I asked Ezra if I could ride with him and Mr. Nash.

  The other three cars departed when we climbed into Mr. Nash’s. Ezra took the wheel, and Mr. Nash and I shared the back seat. A waiter had set a basket inside, and it rested on the seat between us.

  Ezra drove carefully and slowly down through the Santa Cruz Mountains. When we reached the highway, Mr. Nash opened the basket, and I opened my satchel. I felt around inside for my Tewe director’s lens, planning on viewfinding the passing view from the perspective of the enclosed interior. There were redwoods to the left, and the ocean was a 180-degree pan to my right.

  Mr. Nash ate, not offering anything to Ezra or myself, and I viewfound until our first stop for fuel. While Ezra pumped gasoline, Mr. Nash said, “Something’s gonna be done about that father of yours.”

  I lowered my director’s lens and blinked my eyes tight and fast, ending the film I was making.

  “That’s right. I’ll talk and plan. You just bob your head as usual. Damn fool is great with light and lighting, but he has visions of grandeur, visions of—no, delusions—of control and importance.”

  I nodded and stowed my director’s lens inside my satchel.

  “If he wasn’t on your mother’s teat. Excuse that, he’d be out on his ear.”

  I looked up and was pleased that Ezra had done a fine job spraying the windshield with blue liquid from a bottle. Clean glass for clear viewing was important to me.

  “What IM doesn’t know, but I’ll tell you so that you can prepare, is that he’s being assigned full-time to the Yelapa shoot. The entire six weeks. So, you and I need to work together. For your mother.”

  I watched Ezra thoroughly wipe the windshield with blue paper towels.

  “While he’s away, I’ve arranged to have all of his belongings removed from her home.”

  He paused, and Ezra stepped back to admire his efforts.

  “IM will be served divorce papers in Yelapa. She’s finally come around and sees that he’s a disaster, poison to her. Affecting her career and…you.”

  Ezra climbed in behind the wheel, and Mr. Nash said to me, “Let’s talk about something else.”

  Ezra steered us back out onto the highway.

  “Ezra? Do you think we could schedule and shoot the final scene in the studio?” Before Ezra could respond, Mr. Nash directed, “Chew on it for a few miles.”

  We drove along the highway in silence for three miles. When Ezra answered, he was looking at Mr. Nash in the rearview mirror.

  “I would need to study the full storyboard. BB, can you describe your last secret scene?”

  I did.

  Mr. Nash turned to me with one brow arched. He breathed out heavily and reacted.

  “Moses in a short skirt.”

  He and Ezra began talking the shot over—how it could be done in the studio since it only involved my hands and Mumm in close-up.

  Ezra eyed me in the mirror. “If I may, it explains—defines—the title, Savior. I admire the dual meaning now that I can see the final shot.”

  “Savior has two meanings?” Mr. Nash asked.

  “Yes. A savior is often the one who saves. But also consider the efforts of a collector.”

  Scene 2

  Sixteen days later, I was down in the basement of Mumm’s mansion in my laboratory as she affectionately called it. I was set up in one of three storerooms below ground. The walls were exposed beams, and my four rough wooden tables created an L-shape. There were standing lamps and the couch where I often slept. I had rolled out rugs on the concrete pad for warmth and borrowed seven standing mirrors from the furniture storeroom.

  My camera, films, View-Masters, and reels were in neat order on the tables. A ground-level, high window faced west, and I often used its light in the evening for my View-Mastering. I had a desk containing my store-bought reels and the ones I produced with my 3D camera and reel construction kit. On the east wall of the lab, there was a ten-by-fourteen-foot movie screen of white canvas. My 3D projectors were side by side on a cart against the table.

  The door to the room was locked, as always. I was sitting at the table with my stationary set, letters, magazines, comic collection, and my map and notes. The map was open to Northern California. The area at the base of the Sierras had an inked circle around it.

  My satchel was open, and my bow-tied letters from Luscious were on top.

  Because of the locked door, there was a row of five covered meal trays on the left side of the doorframe. My seven mirrors stood strategically to the sides of the entrance.

  I wrote with the faint sounds of the humming air conditioning unit I shared with the basement. Music, laughter, and voices were coming through the vents above my head. The rhythm and melody of the sounds were interrupted by the heavy chain and motor of the service elevator descending.

  When I heard the elevator door slide open, I closed the cover of my writing pad and capped my pen. I listened to the footfalls, recognized them, and unlocked the door.

  Ezra entered with a box in his hand. It was the size of a shoebox and wrapped in an elegant matte of complex patterns. He was dressed formally and, as usual, looked uncomfortable in the attire required for the party upstairs. I watched his expression in the angled mirrors. In the frames, I could see 360-degrees of him, and more, if I considered the mirror echoes.

  “Happy Birthday, BB. Fifteen is a big deal.”

  I thanked him, and he handed me the richly wrapped gift.

  “Mind if I sit?” he asked.

  I nodded and smiled.

  Ezra studied the room before taking a seat on the couch. I set the gift on the table, sat in my chair, and swiveled it around.

  “The party—your party—is at a simmer. Closing in on boiling.” His smile looked weary.

  That year, the parties were a nightly event. Father and his male friends and their dates drank and dined and drank and argued late into the night and beyond. Sometimes furniture was broken. Sometimes there were screams followed by wild laughter.

  “Are you going to dress?” Ezra asked, looking at my formal clothing set out beside him on the couch.

  “No,” I said and walked to the seven mirrors. I looked at all 360-degrees of myself. I wore green serge pants, a gray shirt buttoned to the top, and my black gabardine vest—fully buttoned. My lean face was pale under my straight, black hair. My eyebrows were black and my nose straight. I didn’t look into my eyes.

  “I agree. You look fine,” he said.

  I raised my eyes and looked at him in the mirrors.

  “And every day more like Peck.” He believed I resembled the actor, Gregory Peck.

  I returned to the chair, and Ezra stood and crossed to the projector carts where my dual 3D projectors were set beside the standard film player. He took up the top two film cans from the stack and read from their sides.

  “New?” he asked.

  “3D and a detective mystery,” I agreed.

  “This isn’t in the theatres yet.”

  “Right. Mumm had them delivered for me. They’re unedited. Would you like to view?” I nodded to the table to an extra pair of 3D goggles.

  “I would, but I think it best we head upstairs. And the gift…open it late
r.”

  I agreed, and we left the room. Ezra took the service elevator, and I climbed the stairs as was my usual, having a strong distaste for the wood-box lift.

  Both the elevator and the stairs rose to the south wall of the kitchen storage pantries. Mumm’s staff was busy—all five women and Mr. Davis Harris, her butler. He was directing their efforts to stage the next entrée. Mumm had hired Mr. Harris three years prior, but it was Father who ordered him about, in contrast to Mumm’s suggestions and light requests. Mr. Harris was smiling, and his brow was moist as he nodded, one time, approving of my nonformal attire. Then he tapped his throat to me.

  I raised my hand and touched the 3D goggles around my neck. I shrugged, and Mr. Harris winked and led Ezra and me from the kitchen. We walked the parquet to the marbled foyer to the enclosed dining room where music and loud conversations and female laughter were waiting. Mr. Harris rolled the door open, and I stepped into the familiar chaos among the couches and low tables and the bar and dining area.

  The long, dark table was set, and the prior entrée had been served. It rested, untouched. The table was beautiful even without the candlelight, due to three fiery accidents in months past. The far glass doors were open to the view and the swimming pool. There were human silhouettes swaying at the water’s edge. The glowing blue pool water was an effective backdrop.

  Father stood in a half circle of the usual attendees—studio executives, directors, and producers. Most of these men were there on Mumm’s behalf, and a few stood off to the side looking displeased with Father and his people. These men were glancing at their wristwatches and the big door waiting for Mumm’s entrance.

  Ezra was compelled to attend these parties, being a top-notch cameraman, inventor, and engineer, which meant he was a guppy and swam at a constant risk among the employers—the piranhas.