Butterbugs sensed her command potential, even as she slumbered.
Where, indeed (the question returned), was his stagemom?
Well, he didn’t have one.
This time, he indeed shed a silent tear. It was a moment of recalling what, in fact, he never had, rather than what he did have; a feeling of loss, actually.
These thoughts flitted around and about the old introspections, now darkened, but still installed.
‘Even in the midst of my rising achievement, I feel the subtlety of flaws.’
He sighed.
‘But, take note,’ he said out loud, though not loud enough to wake the squirrel-caged occupant. ‘I can’t use it. She is not mine. Nor is Darcie of the Wonders. So be it. I am without burdens, and I shall stay that way.’
Then, lighting the Macao candle in his red paper dummy lamp, he held it on ahead, sufficient to light the way home. All the way home.
43.
The Dawn Of Humanity
It was a strange late afternoon, full of silent outcries of hope, of unknown emotions, of elation even, if a single feeling might be chosen.
Something was in the air.
As the sun was setting, and the Friday shift masses at the Selznick Studio were knocking off for the week, ELO’s ‘Livin’ Thing’ (covered by The Brangos) was wafting from the infamous rat cage gallery above, and because someone had the CD player setting on ‘Repeat’, the ‘Takin’ a dive’ saga was recycled, with ever increasing impact.
Butterbugs came out of nowhere, strode into the magenta-lighted square and waved his hand out in a grand gesture, over the back lot.
‘For it is pictures, pictures which we do!’ he declared.
They who labored all around heard, and came together, as in a group, and stood in wonder, and listened. Many remained there in the late heat, transfixed, despite a long, wearing day of hard factory work.
‘The pictures that we make with our bare hands rule our lives as surely as magnets would a magnet company! And we come here, and we work, like they in the world’s great swelter-over-’em industries, for we are of their number. There are those who say that what we do is of little consequence. Hah! Since when, is sitting spellbound in darkness inconsequential? Who among you would now come forward with anything but the same truth, for you are living the truth!’
Butterbugs may not have been the most august actor accustomed to making speeches according to script (with a few allowances to cadenza and/or improv), but today there were no lines to memorize. Only feeling. And for some reason, he just had to let it flow, over the whole lot.
In a soundstage a short while before, after the day’s filming had wrapped, Butterbugs had chanced upon Old Atrocity, who was comforting a young electrician. She was a dear, sincere, and stocky gal, always in overalls, dedicated as hell, and uncomplaining as the day was long. Pausing in the shadow of a sloped set, the actor, just coming off a to-and-fro scene of close-ups for his latest picture, was compelled to eavesdrop, out of concern.
‘Now listen, Perrill, what the hell did he tell you? What?’ questioned Old Atrocity, almost forcibly.
Perrill the electrician fought back tears,
‘He said, ohhh, he said that, he was a real electrician. Not like, not like… me.’
‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’
‘Well, you know…’
‘Yeah, kid. I know. Go ahead. I’ll shut up.’
‘Oh, no, that’s OK, you’re my friend.’
‘Always have been. Always will.’
‘Thanks, sweet old Old! Well, anyway, he says that I’m not a ‘real’ electrician, because I don’t work in a ‘real’ business. You know, like I should electrify in something worthwhile, like Homer/Kondon Heavy Industries.’
‘Why, I’d like to give that goof a knuckle sandwich!’
‘I know ya would, sweet guy!’
‘Why, that miserable –’
‘Thanks for the kerchief. But you know, maybe he has a point. What are we doing here, anyway? Doing these picture shows, casting light upon actors and their scenes, laying cables through fake buildings, plugging and then unplugging, leaving no trace, when there are dams to be hard-wired, and wind farms to hook up, and rural electrification to tackle…?’
‘Now you looka here. We’re doing important work here. Well, most of the time. I know, we’ve done a lot of crapola lately. It’s this New Realism thing that panders to the lowest common denominator. I want important pictures to make a comeback, too. But we have to realize that it’s got to come from a higher source. But say, you know this kid, Butterbugs, and the pictures he’s been in?’
‘Oh yeah! He’s swell!’
‘Well, you just keep an eye on him. He was on set again today. He may even still be on the lot. I sure hope so! We’re all leaning heavily on him. He’s different, Perrill! I tell you, his pictures, I’ve seen them. I don’t know, there’s something extraordinary there. You just wait. He might lead us somewhere truly exceptional, and that has to be good for all of us. You’ve got to know, we can’t sink into a self-loathing trip. It’s the closest thing to self-love, and self-love means it’s all about me, me, me. I gotta agree, morale is low. All across town. As an Industry, we have to represent the entire human experience. That’s big stuff. But I know that we’ve digressed. We’re losin’ it. Something has to be done, I know, I know. That’s why that Homer/Kondon nonsense came up.’ (He would have said ‘Kondom’ with emphasized scorn if he’d been talking to a guy.) ‘But so much of heavy industry is heavyweight – No, overweight. You’d hate it there. I know, I’ve done connector-gigs with those bozos. That dude who told you that? He came down so hard on you. As if you carry the load for the whole Industry! Well, you do, in a way. You light ’em up! He knows what you do. I know he’s jealous. That’s all it is. What’s he up to anyway, trying to steal you away from us, or what?’
‘No (sniff), he had nothing to offer. Just put-downs. I think he wants to see me fail. Then he goes on and on, bragging about how the bigger money’s where he’s at, and that I’m a loser. And always will be!’
Perrill’s dam burst, and the tears and sobbing poured from her penstocks.
‘Why, that –! I wish you’d tell me his name so’s I can go knock his block off! I’d show him a thing or two!’
The electrician smiled through her weepery, a little.
‘You’re still my hero, Old.’
‘Oh, honey, don’t think about losers like him. The dude that insulted you’s the loser. Not you. You know that.’
‘I do?’
‘Yup. And I know it, too!’
‘Well, yeah, I guess. But now, it’s got me worried about the future. I can’t stop thinking about it.’
‘I know, I lie awake thinking about some of this stuff, too. I don’t know what it’s all about half the time…’
Butterbugs leaned against the two-by-fours intended for the fresh set and gazed at the catwalks above, with purpose. He knew what he must do. Something had to be done about Perrill’s humiliation.
Outside, in the setting of the actor’s non-acting speech, in the broadest visual sense, the scene was reminiscent of Isaak Brodsky’s painting ‘Lenin’s Speech at the Meeting of the Putilov Factory in May, 1917’. Remarkably, this had nothing to do with the fact that the ‘Lenin’ picture was in accelerated pre-production. It was Perrill the electrician who was the stimulus. How could he possibly pass her by?
The clarity of his voice was more stadium-grade than studio-ready.
‘You – workers, manual, interpretive, and conceptual, of all types, on all levels! Surely you must know the import of your livelihoods! And I’m not referring to glamour. That is a side effect, later-enacted, and on the part of audiences and the slavish media. We’re supposed to be hand-in-hand with them, but do they help our efforts, or pervert them? Shall we lead, or shall we be led? Why should our creativity be taken for granted?
‘I am an actor, not a motivator. I do not know how to do a pep talk. What I say
to you is the truth. Because I am new. I look at you with eyes newly unwrapped of their cellophane. It’s a funny way to say it, but I feel as if we’re in some sort of line of products, sometimes. We package those products like breath mints. Is that what we want? Why was this huge Industry created, and then left to drift? Are we on the same raft, cast into uncertain seas, or are we actually separate from those who run this show? Those who run it, and those who serve. Two different entities.’
‘Socialist!’ hooted one voice, of indeterminate identity.
‘I am of no label, so please do not assign one to me. I am far too inadequate to recite any sort of doctrine, dogma, or line of philosophical thought allied with a political agenda.’
‘Slave! To socialist writers, then!’ responded the same voice.
‘I’m not a slave. I’ve no script. Only the inklings of what I detect as truths, faint perhaps… But is there truly no one here who does not know what I am talking about?’
The crowd, still growing, was silent – even the accuser.
‘This… this uncertainty. It’s not really a question of morale. That would be too simple. Rather, I think anyway, it is a matter of where we are going. Our course, what is it? Only to entertain? To instruct? Just a job?’
‘Why are you asking us these questions?’ asked Terra Sqwubbs, everyone’s favorite wardrobe mistress.
‘Why indeed, Terra. Perhaps because I am an actor, I can also serve as a mouthpiece. Wind me up, insert the card of choice, and I will spout any sort of rubbish!’
The crowd laughed warmly.
‘You wouldn’t know what rubbish is, dear boy!’ Terra called out as the laughter simmered down.
‘So maybe I’m just addressing concerns, then. Not of the union kind, not of the bitching kind, but perhaps, of the more subtle kind. The soulful kind.’
‘We appreciate it!’ someone sounded off.
‘I, uh, I can’t help but think, that there come times in human lives, when a re-evaluation, not necessarily of all values, but those which we are part of – those that perhaps we can have a say in – faces us.
‘Our Industry, then. What do we want with it? What do we want it to be? As before, I have categorized it. Not that I wish to. Why the pigeonholes? Convenience, certainly. I have to tell you, I detect dissatisfaction, unfulfillment, low opinions. Not just at this here studio, but at many. Is there a question about this?’
No response was the response that signaled truth.
‘I cannot be an attorney either, and make a case about anything. But it seems, many attorneys are actors – a very different kind of actor – and their sense of abuse of the Drama has changed our world, not for the better, I fear. See? I’m making a case, I guess. Just like a lawyer would!’
The crowd murmured with amusement.
‘We know, of course, that said lawyers are actors devoted to their own gain. A nonfiction approach, eh? Nonfiction actors! Like the pundits and commentators who ‘utter-up’ the nonfiction media. While we – We! Are we not all devoted to the Drama?’
Now the crowd roared their approval.
‘Drama and its – results! Our results speak to humankind! We are important, but we are subtle. Yes, really! Our ballyhoo biz! It’s because we are taken for granted; that we will always be there; that we will always provide! So yes, fukkin’-A! Damn right we’re important!!’
Practically the whole studio staff, collars all colors, were gathered round the actor and his message, cheering, clearing the air with their joyous affirmation.
‘I’ll simmer down. I can, easily, now, as I know we all agree. How could we not? Speakers, whether actors or lawyers or pontificators of all kinds, have to back themselves up. The New Reality requires it. As in ‘The Music Man’ (WB, 1962), everyone wants to see credentials. As you know, I have none. Or maybe just one. So tell me to shut up, already!’
The crowd saw the humor, but they made it clear by their lack of reply that they wanted him to continue.
‘I cannot really offer answers here in this unplanned moment. That’s why I’m asking questions of the relentless kind. I can keep asking them, but tedium would intervene.
‘If we are critical of our condition, no one’s going to bail our asses out but ourselves. We are that powerful, and capable, and creative. We are in a powerful medium. Never let anyone, no matter what their station is, belittle our medium. Our output is liable to fault, yes. If merited. But our importance is self-evident. And you know what I’m going to say next. About responsibility and all. Importance can equal puffery, and puffballs are usually punctured or scattered in the winds. I cannot equate our importance with ego, but I’ll leave off that subject because all of you will no doubt feel your own egos squeezed a tad by my pretentious statement, that so reeks of sanctimony. Well, doesn’t it? No? Nevertheless, I’m certainly ready for the booing to start!’
No boos, but a lot of wry chuckling.
‘All right, forget waste-of-time ramblings, like self-esteem-iness. There’s a larger, brass-tack issue. Quality of production, and what we think of our output.’
Butterbugs paused and gazed at those who stood in the front row of the crowd. He gestured toward one of many familiar faces.
‘Wade Kelk! We’ve worked together on four pictures so far. Tell me, are you pleased with the results?’
The production designer stepped forward.
‘I am, yes, Butterbugs. I mean, now I am. Because your pictures are different. Before you came, well, sorry to put you on the spot –’
‘No, Wade,’ Butterbugs joked. ‘You’re on the spot, not me!’
The crowd laughed supportively.
‘But really, Butterbugs, before you came, I was depressed. With my job, with the big picture. Life, really. Now I am enthused again. About my career, everything. Glory to you, Butterbugs! Glory!’
The others cheered without provocation.
‘I’m not after glory, Wade. It is our Industry of creating and producing motion pictures that I call upon –’
‘OK then,’ answered Wade in a louder voice, ‘I guess all I have to say is: thanks for coming to motion pictures!’
Much more excited cheering followed. All the participants – casts, crews, execs, accountants, drivers, janitors, secretaries, and anyone else who would usually be home by now or deep into daily gridlock en route, instead were talking excitedly with each other, yelping approval, and generally registering positive reaction to what had just transpired.
Butterbugs, suspecting that no formal conclusion or wrap-up of this serendipitous occasion needed to be pursued, left off and surrendered to the festive mass activity that now swirled about him.
Cinematic sense was made out of the lack of structure by a resourceful group of grips, who approached the speaker with a mighty camera crane, sans camera, wheeled from the huge Satra stage, just at hand. Because of the merry din, the Key Grip had to gesture for Butterbugs to get up on the device. Because the only logical next step in this hubbub was a processional presentation.
After all, these people were rather skilled in staging that sort of thing.
And those who had witnessed this scene went about with gladness in their hearts, and it was sustained. Many were the number who spread the words heard from the speaker at the site, and in their hearts and minds they knew something extraordinary had just occurred. To those who listened, secondhand, they felt good reason to be blown away. The most perceptive of them said:
‘Blessed are they. They’ve seen Butterbugs!’
‘You talk as if he’s…’, someone somewhere started to say.
Saskia Pingles, up in her office, and in front of the keyboard, sensed something without. Through the square grid of the lattice of the verandah, she saw a sort of procession moving along the Way of the Single Standing Film Vaults. She called over to Erebus Woolfe and Berengaria Smith’s office next door.
‘Hark, fellow scribes! Awake! There is a sense of urgency below. Come!’
As the writers descended the exterior stairs, th
e procession drew nigh. Exaltation was in the air. And, mixed with this magical ambience, was also a solemnity that indicated something impending.
‘What is this?’ Saskia asked an onlooking dress extra.
‘I cannot say, exactly,’ said the extra, staring expectantly in the direction of the oncoming crowd. ‘I can only tell you that something has changed…’
‘Look!’ exclaimed Erebus. ‘He comes!’
‘Who? Who comes?’ questioned Saskia.
No one answered. No one does when momentousness is imminent.
There, drawn by those who had witnessed his words, was Butterbugs, sitting on the mighty Vataka crane, where the fluid head for the camera usually was. He was dressed as a worker, and his visage was splendid, with an as-yet unnamable aura of presence. His expression bore an utter seriousness of one who has spoken the truth, and who now needed to say no more. For the present. His head was held high, though without pomposity or guile.
‘Look! Look! He comes!’ yelled a voice, and a whole crowd of extras from a Roman picture, filming late on UltraStage 7, swept across the plaza and pressed in for a view.
Seen from the Writer’s Rat Cage Terrace, the scene was tremendous.
‘How nobly he rides!’ said Erebus.
‘He is a great leader,’ said Berengaria. ‘I know it now…’
Something came over Saskia, who gazed in the direction of the coming one. From a slightly cynical regard for whatever was marching down the lane, she saw it now, and was flooded with a force of unknown emotion. She was transfixed. Then, she recovered her poise. Her focus was now drilled into the very being of he who rode so high.
The one on the moving vehicle.
Forward to Glory Page 47