A Shot to Die For by Libby Fischer Hellmann Page B

told, gives onto pristine woodlands. In fact, a portion of lakefront called Black Point is supposed to be beautiful. But as I drove through downtown, an unimpressive collection of shops trying too hard to be charming, I felt vaguely ripped off.
    Another disappointment was the location of the Lodge. Unlike the Geneva Inn, the hotel on the water’s edge, the Lodge was several miles inland off Route 50, a nondescript two-lane highway that could have been anywhere in the country. Most of the other hotels, inns, and cottages were inland, too, or at the other end of the lake in Fontana or Williams Bay. I had the impression that this once overwhelmingly residential community had never quite adjusted to its commercial status.
    I cut over to Route 50 and turned onto a long, winding drive that took me up to the Lodge. An eighteen-hole golf course lay on one side of the road, and a party of golfers strode toward the tee. In bright red, yellow, and blue shirts, they looked like the flag of a small country, A quarter mile farther up was a large building with stone facings, meticulous landscaping, and a wide circular driveway. I parked in a back lot beside Mac’s van. He and his crew had been here since dawn, getting one of Mac’s sun-rising-over-the-prairie shots.
    I headed past the bronze statue of the man with a child on his shoulders and pushed through the revolving door. The interior had a rustic, woodsy feel, with pebbled walls, nubby upholstery, muted lighting, and carpeting in shades of green and brown. I almost expected to see woodland creatures scurrying down the halls. They’d even carried the natural splendor theme into the ladies’ room, where water cascaded down a wall.
    I went up the stairs to the second floor, where I heard Mac’s voice coming from the ballroom. After navigating around lights and equipment piled on a tarp in the hall, I leaned against the door frame. In the Playboy days, the “Penthouse,” as it was called, had been the resort’s main nightclub, but in the seventies they’d renamed it the “Showroom” so as not to be confused with the magazine’s arch competitor. Reincarnated yet again as the “Evergreen Ballroom,” it boasted flocked wallpaper, earth-toned carpeting, and chandeliers with tiny shaded lamps.
    I walked in, imagining how the room might have looked thirty-five years ago. Well-dressed couples seated around dozens of small tables. Subdued lighting. The air charged with a subtle electricity. A hushed crowd. A blue-white spotlight slicing through a haze of smoke, picking up a tuxedo-clad Sinatra or Tony Bennett. A platoon of young girls in those absurd Bunny costumes, happily catering to the fantasies of men, blissfully unaware that Gloria Steinem, herself a Bunny, would soon change the way the world thought of them.
    I wished there was some way to include that part of the resort’s history—the evolution from glittery adult playground to a place where fathers carried kids around on their shoulders. It wouldn’t be hard. Snippets of Count Basie on the track, maybe a gauzy filter over the lens. If we kept to a long shot, any actor in a tuxedo would do for a “performer.” It wasn’t totally out of the question—a few years ago I’d convinced the Water District to let me stage a historical reenactment on video. The only problem was that compared to the bland, humorless owners of the Lodge, the officials at the Water District were wildly progressive.
    I watched Mac rehearse a dolly shot down the length of the ballroom. He’d brought a crew of three, but two of the resort’s maintenance men were helping out as gofers. They didn’t speak much English, but they were getting into the spirit of things, moving furniture and equipment around with cheery smiles and hand gestures. This was probably as close as they’d ever get to show biz.
    Once the shot and cutaways were in the can, Mac started to wrap. “Not much here to shoot, Ellie.”
    “There will be soon enough. The gala