Forward to Glory

by Brian Paul Bach

  The thrill was on, whether via an antique theatricality, classical simplicity, tasteful raunch-ish acts, testing of quality plastic products, or costume-ball role-playing – sans cameras, of course (for now, anyway). Any kinks were curvy and mild. Accents were on lavish attainment rather than machined limit-pushing. The musky mists they generated shimmered in their hearts and minds long after their orgasms retreated peacefully.

  ‘This… is working…!’ they all thought, in their own phrasing.

  Lucky in love were they.

  Meanwhile, unbeknownst to most of the Industry, top specialists at Muldagon Electrics (aka: Muldex Coy.) on Severundrum Blvd near Gotham Studios, were on the verge of a breakthrough. Ever since an obscure gesture occurred a few years before, in which the Supervising Engineer of Muldex’s Hollywood branch, B.K. Vendacardamom, invited a considerable group of consultants from Howrah, Shencottah, Gulbarga, Srirangam, Tirukkalikundram, Sriviliputur, Nasik, Huzoorpore, Rajapalaiyam – and of course Varanasi, to attempt a demonstration, in person, whether or not an idea of his could be realized in full, significant things were happening on the fourth floor of the Severundrum labs.

  Though he had long since left his native seat of Sankarayinarkovil, deep down in Tamilnadu, BKV, as he was known, retained strong Vedanta beliefs. By dint of hard and enlightened work, he found himself heading up one of the most progressive and technologically innovative outfits in the Industry. Therefore, the properties of shakti were utterly entwined in his creations. Creations that were soon to set all of cinema on its ear.

  This spiritual immersion was due not only to the life into which he’d been born, but because of another, profounder factor. On regular occasions he went into samadhi, and often emerged with astounding ideas. No mere trance, the samadhi was an intermission taken in another dimension, perhaps another universe.

  The concept of celluloid’s evolution to a much higher plane was BKV’s innovation alone, by which he developed a hyper-realistic-reflecting aggregate of molecular relationships within related chemistries. This made possible the production of a capture-capable stock that, when exposed in any camera’s aperture, caused the image to be transformed without a wet-bath developing process. The results were nothing short of mind-blowing. From celluloid to supra-digital ribbon-stock, in one stroke! It was almost a living organism.

  Thus, by BKV’s liberation of the movable film itself, this new, super-flexible and adaptive material of great permanence and expansiveness could reign supreme. Miraculously, there was a re-flowering of already established screen processes. Now, much to most filmmakers’ joy, beloved formats such as 70mm, previously prohibitively expensive, were made attractive and usable again. Now there was a cheap and easily-accessible BKV film stock for any and all motion (and still) cameras extant on planet Earth, whether 8, 16, 35, or 70mm wide. 9.5mm, too. And the even more esoteric 17.5 and 28mm gauges!

  ‘The raison d’être of my poor Pathé Webo ‘M’ 9.5mm camera has been restored to me! Therefore, all my subsequent films shall be shot in that format! Vive la 9.5!! Merci M. BKV!!!’ Jean-Luc Godard whooped (here translated) in ‘Cahiers du Cinéma’.

  This Shooting Stock Revolution made it possible for the entire cinema world to abandon flaky and non-lasting electronic pathways of image reproduction in exchange for this most organic of methods. After all, the stock’s actual formation was a mystic commingling of basalt dust and ragweed, united in a cold fusion process within one of the smallest carbon footprints imaginable, providing a stability factor as rock-solid as the Paramount mountain itself. Consequently, all film stock manufacturers duly converted to the BKV Method, and indeed, stamped their products with that branding, as the international ® ™ it was. Visual resolution was so startling that audiences could not make a correlation as to the reality of the improvement. Not because it was overly subtle, but because it was so wonderful.

  [Therefore, BKV’s innovation was not readily recognized as an element of the New Realism (according to the Reepsville Accord), for it was an entire environment of its own, an advance that extended far beyond any pesky boil on the neck of the Industry’s dramatic and literary limitations.]

  As a mega-bonus, the entire canon of existing cinema could now be readily converted to BKV stock – for the ages. Whole concerns sprouted up, with retrospective conversion as their sole mission.

  ‘I am glad my Method is not viewed as a distraction,’ BKV himself commented, with characteristic understatement and humility. Therefore, Muldex had expanded into realms of motion picture technology that were all-inclusive, much to the chagrin of more conventional engineers in Tokyo, Bamako, Eindhoven, and Pusan.

  The man BKV was the confidant of moguls, the guru of camera and SFX chela alike, and enjoyed the company of composers and scribes, not to mention as the doyenne of both stars and Whits of the screen. Everyone loved BKV, and BKV kept everyone happy with his irrepressible buoyancy and commonsense wit. He lived the Hollywood life without pretension, channeled much of his immense intellect and leverage towards the sensitive improvement of his native Hindustan, where he headquartered, on a rotating basis, with Mollywood, Dollywood, Tollywood, and Bollywood for a third of the year. While stateside, the only overt connection with his heritage was a conspicuous but fitting Vaishnavite sect mark, calligraphed on his forehead in saffron-colored paste, every morn.

  At any rate, the group of consultants BKV brought to his labs were a carefully-picked congress of yogis, sadhus, sannyasis, dervishes, swamis, fakirs, esoteric ascetics, and other assorted holy men (and thirty-three women, several related to Sarada Devi), all of significant spiritual standing.

  They converged on Hollywood, based on the very credible prospect that BKV entertained before them. It was a concept that new technology, yet newer than BKV’s excellent advances with film, could be enacted in accomplishing image capture. Only this time it would employ methods beyond the organic. Perhaps it might be metaphysical, or ethereal, or just plain cosmic. But knowing BKV, it was something involving the transcendental – or where transcendence meets concrete reality.

  No word had leaked out. Even with the components the consultants had brought with them, such as ashes, agarbatti, Ganga water, exemplary items in connection with the Austerity of the Five Fires, well-thumbed Upanishad and Gita texts in Sanskrit and translations, puja kits, and memories of ancient horse sacrifices, the Industry was now used to BKV’s Indic influxes. As a result, respect and patience were practiced by all, even the gentlepeople of the media.

  No rumors existed, nor speculations. It was universally thought best just to leave them to it. Surely, beneficial wonders would emerge. Therefore, the research proceeded in serenity and peace, as well as with the ahimsa precepts of respect for all forms of life.

  [A special shipment of gauze respirators had to be secured from Mt. Girnar in Gujarat, to be worn by the resident Svetambara Jains, lest they inadvertently inhale an innocent insect or microorganism.]

  The word ‘breakthrough’ was, in fact, wholly inadequate to describe what was happening. In this circle, the primal structure of the essential composition of life (and inanimate life) was being approached in hopes of tapping into it via new ways. That was the prime directive of this undertaking.

  [Life, and inanimate life: that is, the whole cosmology of the universe, and the whole super-region of the sva lakshana phenomenon, the active building blocks of the known and unknown world, infinitesimally smaller than atoms, but infinitely smarter and soul-filled.]

  Indeed, no word was adequate. Nor was one necessary.

  51.

  Controversy! Accurséd Controversy!

  It was a brilliant season. A glittering list of Butterbugs’ pictures lay waiting to be released within a sophisticated strategic schedule.

  Tucked into this lavish and diverse selection was curious Civil War piece, directed by John Ford, shot by Arthur Miller and Bob Surtees (in Academy ratio/high-contrast b&w) and scored by Alfred Newman. It was called ‘The Life and Justified Times of Edmund Ruffin�
� (20th-Fox).

  In playing the Virginian crustbucket, the first to fire a shot at Fort Sumter in 1861, Butterbugs found he could actually pull off the task of playing a wretched man who was in his 70s. It was an accomplishment not wholly his own, as Pappy Ford, amidst the handkerchief chewing, gave him firsthand tips on a geezer’s artless ways. The two got on well together, and film historians were dreadfully disappointed that there were no legendary anecdotes or tales of Mick raffishness to emerge from the production’s progress. It was shot in numerous locations throughout the South, and various Sacramento Valley sites were used for retakes. There was nothing at all unusual about the filming. At the preview, word circulated that it was Pappy’s best since ‘The Man Who Shot Liberty Valence’ (Paramount, 1962), and destined be an immediate classic.

  Naturally, this fact would further cement Butterbugs’ diversity of talents, and show his willingness and success in collaborations amongst the Old Crowd. So far though, the starry actor had no reason to differentiate between any kind of Crowds, as he found all makers of film to be professional, stimulating and helpful in their behavior. It was his innate modesty that prevented him, or perhaps saved him, from realizing that perhaps it was he who made some sort of impact or influence over those with whom he worked. Pappy Ford was wordless in talking about him, and that was a sign of respect. Or was it exaltation? Too strong a term, even for Ford.

  The publicity machine had to do its thing, though.

  ‘We are enjoying the season here,’ wrote Tab Hunter, now a respected film critic for the Hearst people. ‘And ‘Ed Ruffin’ is like a plain cascade of honest non-bottled water amidst the cappuccino and latte smaze wafting from the belching chimneys of our unaware film factories.’

  It was a way of saying that Pappy had altered his style not a bit, and that was good. Hunter didn’t happen to know that it was in fact Ford who’d directed Butterbugs in his first appearance on film (the 20th-Fox opening). And come to think of it, both the aged director and the young star had made no recollective notes regarding the occasion, either. That was stuff for all those scholarly Brits to figure out. They who attempted to document the Hollywood experience and its history, for posterity, with usually successful results.

  But alas, a scandal was about to hit. Or rather, a confrontation. The premiere of ‘Ruffin’ took place at the neoclassical-baroque Los Angeles Theatre on Broadway, downtown LA. Originally, plans had been to stage the opening at a derelict drive-in somewhere in western (not West) Virginia (near Ruffin’s actual farm), but the locals didn’t want to mix with suspicious showbizzy types, and they said so.

  ‘Macaca’ was a term bandied about in that back-country, implying ‘foreigners’, or worse.

  Somehow, word had gotten out to those who cared, that the picture was soft on the North and hard on the South. This enflamed plenty of esoteric folk who still held the name of Ruffin dearly. And they quickly organized, as Secessionists do. They marched on LA, found it to be everything they imagined, renewed all commitment to their mission, consolidated their resources, and drew nigh to the place of exhibition.

  Safely tucked into the threadbare breast pocket of their Commanding Off’cer T.J. Rund-Ruffin, distant illegitimate heir to the great man who so needed defending, was a Statement of Total Right, scrawled by Judge J.P. ‘Ponk’ Mushcow hisself, dee-claring that it was ‘Perfeckly Legul’ for ‘these heere boys’ to ‘tote CSA-grade fire-weapons’ in Likkr County, ‘and everwhere they dee-sire, for all I care’.

  With Rebel battle flags waving high over the State Houses of their tattered hats, so to speak, their crummy patrol looked more like a scene out of a cheap 1920s Chugger Miskery serial than an errand in defending Belle South’s honor.

  As the last members of cast and crew were entering the movie palace for this unusually-timed matinee premiere, the ragged band hobbled into formation and opened fire. Never had the film capital seen so many Arthur Hunnicuts, Jebber Grazlakes, Dub Taylors, Slim Pickenses, Frank McGraths, and Gabby Hayeses, not to mention a few Margaret Wycherlys, Minerva Urecals and Mercedes McCambridges, but without those professionals’ deep understanding of how showbiz works.

  Butterbugs, on the verge of giving a big wave to his cheering fans before entering the portal, dodged not one musket ball, but two.

  ‘Holy shits! Muzzle-loaders!’

  They whizzed past him like fizzy gumballs.

  ‘This is not a drill!’ yelled Jack Carson, who played Ft. Sumter Commander Robert Anderson, before beetling into the theatre.

  One particle grazed Butterbugs’ ear. He looked behind him and saw a set of Louis Quinze caryatids, holding up one of the theatre’s most exemplary niches, explode into plaster dust.

  What followed was instant Antietam, for the air became thick with grapeshot, balls, bullets, and canister. The sharp crack of rifle mixed with plumes of guncotton flare, and many fell that day.

  ‘Beloved thiertre, stand through this blitz, I implore! O stand!’

  Butterbugs helped any of the numerous wounded that he could find. Little girls in birthday party dresses, reformed hoodies mad about movies instead of mayhem, John Q. and Jane X. Publics, USC film-schoolers, CalArts hipsters, baristas, sommeliers, garage mechanics, senators, CPAs, mellow housedads, dressed-for-success glass ceiling-shatterers, plain folks, movie hounds, sooners, boomers, and whippersnappers, rappers, wrappers, Koreatown keepers, Chinatown knights, boulevardiers and cineastes, artists and lovers, mestizo hotel clerks, beloved rogues, roués, rakes, and revolutionaries, curators and curates, saffron-dhoti’d baboos, and blue-haired ladies. Plus, everybody else. The very spectrum of a Butterbugsian audience, their lives, limbs, loves and cinematic fancies sacrificed on an apostate altar of domestic terrorism!

  In the hubbub, not one of them perceived that they were being assisted by, comforted by, and most importantly, saved by the star of the picture they had so innocently come to see and celebrate.

  ‘Good thing Pappy’s not here,’ the star thought to himself. ‘He’d be covering the whole scene with his Eyemo. Sure wish Jack Pennick was, though. But he’d need an M1918 BAR to take care of those nogoodniks out there…! Goshamighty!’

  The Versailles-inspired lobby became thick with firecrack smoke. Nearly all the panic-stricken patrons wisely retreated into the vast auditorium, where they shivered in fear, anticipating that it would be a chamber of extinction. Their term of trial was short though, for the sterling house staff skillfully shepherded everyone toward the rear fire exits, and safety. Genderson Whitfroft remained valiantly at the Mighty Wurlitzer, playing a hushed and comforting selection of Newmanesque themes from the score, serving as ‘walk music’. Miraculously, it helped keep the masses orderly and calm.

  Art Linkletter, who had a huge part in the picture – as General Jubal Early – got a flesh wound in his right arm. He’d been admiring the famous crystal fountain just up the grand staircase. Butterbugs found him refuge behind the Concessions Stand, well back behind their lines. The venerable performer remained characteristically cheerful and managed to crow:

  ‘Rebels do the darndest things!’

  Art was cared for by a dress extra who happened to be costumed as a Clara Barton-type, on hire to hype the picture’s opening. As she bandaged the brave one’s wound, Butterbugs knelt down in front of them.

  ‘Now that your welfare is assured, Art – or should I say, General Early, suh!, I shall make for the barricades, to seek Relief for the Concession Stands, the Mezzanine and Balcony Stairs, as well as the Upper Foyers, should Providence allow me!’

  ‘Glory to you then, actor turned soldier!’ answered Art fondly.

  ‘Sometimes,’ the Clara Barton-type said with great solemnity, ‘acting, by necessity, turns into service.’

  ‘For you, and all the other Clara Barton-types,’ Butterbugs replied while buttoning his shirt and adjusting his dress-up kit to make it more uniform-like, ‘I serve with deepest honor!’

  ‘I hail you sir, and hope I never have to minister dressings or assist in any
amputation that might befall you. And if I never see you again, I know that you served with generous integrity, and that you will, in falling, face glory beyond!’

  The Clara Barton-type wore an expression of resignation, though her words of encouragement were heartfelt. An actress herself, and just starting out, she had a promising career ahead. Unbeknownst to her, it would even involve much significant acting with Butterbugs himself, in due course. For she was Huitzilopochtli Wong. Yes, the Huitzilopochtli Wong.

  With determination, she would save her tears for well after the noble one’s departure. Besides, she had her patient’s morale to keep up.

  Art’s cheeks positively glowed. ‘Thanks can’t even begin to describe my gratitude, Butterbugs. So, glory again! Glory to you, always!’ he beamed. ‘But don’t miss my house party, later on tonight, OK? C’mon through!’

  ‘I will, suh!’

  While heading back to the line of control, the young star snapped his fingers.

  ‘So that’s why they scheduled this premiere as a matinee! Cool!’

  He then did evasive action in real time. His was the confidence of one who faces a challenge, unneedful of director or scriptor to request or order the course into action he now took. He made his way back down the stately concourse to the front doors, getting an instant playbook in urban warfare, conducted without blanks, prop blood, or 2nd unit Techniscope cameras turning. He utilized all the boot camp methods he’d acquired for his recent role in ‘Damn Time Coming’ (Columbia), a hard-hitting war picture co-authored by Norman Mailer and James Jones that hacked away at the WWI mythos.

  Was this really happening? Where was a coherent overview of the terrain, so that he could understand the ebb and flow of battle? How did it all work?