poured some in a glass and ff’d to the “Play it again, Sam” scene.
Bogart slugged down a drink, the screen went to soft-focus, and he was pouring Ingrid Bergman champagne in front of a matte that was supposed to be Paris.
The door opened.
“Forget to give me some gossip, Heada?” I said, taking another swallow.
It was Alis. She was wearing a pinafore and puffed sleeves. Her hair was darker, and had a big bow in it, but it had that same backlit look to it, framing her face with radiance.
Fred Astaire tapped a ripple on the polished floor, and Eleanor Powell repeated it and turned to smile at him—
I downed the rest of the champagne in one gulp, and poured some more. “Well, if it isn’t Ruby Keeler,” I said “What do you want?”
She stayed in the doorway. “The musicals you showed me the other night, Heada said you might be willing to loan me the opdisks.”
I took a drink of champagne. “They aren’t on disk. It’s a direct fibe-op feed,” I said, and sat down at the comp.
“Is that what you do?” she said from behind me. She was standing looking over my shoulder at the screen. “You ruin movies?”
“That’s what I do,” I said. “I protect the movie-going public from the evils of demon rum and chooch. Mostly demon rum. There aren’t all that many movies with drugs in them.
Valley of the Dolls, Postcards from the Edge
, a couple of Cheech and Chongs,
The Thief of Bagdad
. I also remove nicotine if the Anti-Smoking League didn’t get there first.” I deleted the champagne glass Ingrid Bergman was raising to her lips. “What do you think? Cocoa or tea?”
She didn’t say anything.
“It’s a big job. Maybe you could do the musicals. Want me to access Mayer and see if he’ll hire you?”
She looked stubborn. “Heada said you could make opdisksfor me off the feed,” she said stiffly. “I just need them to practice with. Till I can find a dancing teacher.”
I turned around in the chair to look at her. “And then what?”
“If you don’t want to lend them to me, I could watch them here and copy down the steps. When you’re not using the comp.”
“And then what?” I said. “You copy down the steps and practice the routines and then what? Gene Kelly pulls you out of the chorus—no, wait, I forgot, you don’t like Gene Kelly—Gene Nelson pulls you out of the chorus and gives you the lead? Mickey Rooney decides to put on a show? What?”
“I don’t know. When I find a dancing teacher—”
“There
aren’t
any dancing teachers. They all went home to Meadowville fifteen years ago, when the studios switched to computer animation. There aren’t any soundstages or rehearsal halls or studio orchestras. There aren’t any
studios
, for God’s sake! All there is is a bunch of geekates hacking away on Crays and a bunch of corporation execs telling ’em what to do. Let me show you something.” I twisted back around in the chair. “Menu,” I said.
“Top Hat
. Frame 97-265.”
Fred and Ginge came up on the screen, spinning around in the Piccolino. “You want to bring musicals back. We’ll do it right here. Forward at five.” The screen slowed to a sequence of frames. Kick and. Turn and. Lift.
“How long did you say Fred had to practice his routines?”
“Six weeks,” she said tonelessly.
“Too long. Think of all that rehearsal-hall rent. And all those tap shoes. Frame 97-288 to 97-631, repeat four times, then 99-006 to 99-115, and continuous loop. At twenty-four.” The screen slid into realtime, and Fred lifted Ginge, lifted her again, and again, effortlessly, lightly. Lift, and lift, and kick and turn.
“Does that kick look high enough to you?” I said, pointing at the screen. “Frame 99-108 and freeze.” I fiddled withthe image, raising Fred’s leg till it touched his nose. “Too high?” I eased it back down a little, smoothed out the shadows. “Forward at twenty-four.”
Fred kicked, his leg sailing into the air. And lift. And lift. And lift. And
Bogart slugged down a drink, the screen went to soft-focus, and he was pouring Ingrid Bergman champagne in front of a matte that was supposed to be Paris.
The door opened.
“Forget to give me some gossip, Heada?” I said, taking another swallow.
It was Alis. She was wearing a pinafore and puffed sleeves. Her hair was darker, and had a big bow in it, but it had that same backlit look to it, framing her face with radiance.
Fred Astaire tapped a ripple on the polished floor, and Eleanor Powell repeated it and turned to smile at him—
I downed the rest of the champagne in one gulp, and poured some more. “Well, if it isn’t Ruby Keeler,” I said “What do you want?”
She stayed in the doorway. “The musicals you showed me the other night, Heada said you might be willing to loan me the opdisks.”
I took a drink of champagne. “They aren’t on disk. It’s a direct fibe-op feed,” I said, and sat down at the comp.
“Is that what you do?” she said from behind me. She was standing looking over my shoulder at the screen. “You ruin movies?”
“That’s what I do,” I said. “I protect the movie-going public from the evils of demon rum and chooch. Mostly demon rum. There aren’t all that many movies with drugs in them.
Valley of the Dolls, Postcards from the Edge
, a couple of Cheech and Chongs,
The Thief of Bagdad
. I also remove nicotine if the Anti-Smoking League didn’t get there first.” I deleted the champagne glass Ingrid Bergman was raising to her lips. “What do you think? Cocoa or tea?”
She didn’t say anything.
“It’s a big job. Maybe you could do the musicals. Want me to access Mayer and see if he’ll hire you?”
She looked stubborn. “Heada said you could make opdisksfor me off the feed,” she said stiffly. “I just need them to practice with. Till I can find a dancing teacher.”
I turned around in the chair to look at her. “And then what?”
“If you don’t want to lend them to me, I could watch them here and copy down the steps. When you’re not using the comp.”
“And then what?” I said. “You copy down the steps and practice the routines and then what? Gene Kelly pulls you out of the chorus—no, wait, I forgot, you don’t like Gene Kelly—Gene Nelson pulls you out of the chorus and gives you the lead? Mickey Rooney decides to put on a show? What?”
“I don’t know. When I find a dancing teacher—”
“There
aren’t
any dancing teachers. They all went home to Meadowville fifteen years ago, when the studios switched to computer animation. There aren’t any soundstages or rehearsal halls or studio orchestras. There aren’t any
studios
, for God’s sake! All there is is a bunch of geekates hacking away on Crays and a bunch of corporation execs telling ’em what to do. Let me show you something.” I twisted back around in the chair. “Menu,” I said.
“Top Hat
. Frame 97-265.”
Fred and Ginge came up on the screen, spinning around in the Piccolino. “You want to bring musicals back. We’ll do it right here. Forward at five.” The screen slowed to a sequence of frames. Kick and. Turn and. Lift.
“How long did you say Fred had to practice his routines?”
“Six weeks,” she said tonelessly.
“Too long. Think of all that rehearsal-hall rent. And all those tap shoes. Frame 97-288 to 97-631, repeat four times, then 99-006 to 99-115, and continuous loop. At twenty-four.” The screen slid into realtime, and Fred lifted Ginge, lifted her again, and again, effortlessly, lightly. Lift, and lift, and kick and turn.
“Does that kick look high enough to you?” I said, pointing at the screen. “Frame 99-108 and freeze.” I fiddled withthe image, raising Fred’s leg till it touched his nose. “Too high?” I eased it back down a little, smoothed out the shadows. “Forward at twenty-four.”
Fred kicked, his leg sailing into the air. And lift. And lift. And lift. And
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