He feels that he is anchored to a post by a chain; he can only advance so far before his progress is arrested.
Carl Laemmle is Universal Studios. Isadore Bernstein looks after Carl Laemmle’s business affairs on the West Coast. Isadore Bernstein builds Universal City. But Isadore Bernstein has ambitions beyond signing another man’s checks. Isadore Bernstein wants to found his own studio. Isadore Bernstein smells success in comedy.
It is 1917, and Isadore Bernstein offers him his own series of films. He has waited. He has been patient. Now he is being rewarded, and Mae also: they sign together.
The picture is called Nuts in May.
An Isadore Bernstein Production.
Written by Isadore Bernstein.
Filmed at Bernstein Studios.
Isadore Bernstein talks of a possible collaboration with Chaplin.
He should have known better. He plays a book salesman who becomes convinced that he is the Emperor Napoleon. He plays a deluded individual.
There is one preview at the Hippodrome. He sees himself on the screen at last. He sees Mae. Cigars are lit. Toasts are made.
It is the only showing of the picture.
It is the first and last comedy in his series.
Someone tells him that Chaplin was sitting at the back of the Hippodrome for the screening. It may be a lie, because there is no sign of Chaplin afterward. He hopes that it is a lie, because if Chaplin departed without exchanging a greeting it can only be for one of two reasons: either Chaplin saw the picture and viewed his old understudy as competition, and Chaplin dislikes competition; or the picture was so bad—and he so bad in it—that Chaplin wished only to spare him the shame of an encounter.
But Chaplin reappears. Chaplin invites him to dinner. Chaplin offers him work, because Chaplin says that he is better than this, better than Isadore Bernstein Productions.
And he believes Chaplin, because Chaplin is Chaplin.
But the work never materializes.
Because Chaplin is Chaplin.
Isadore Bernstein blinks at him through round spectacles and asks for a donation toward the building of the Temple Israel on Ivar Street. He tells Isadore Bernstein that he is not Jewish. Isadore Bernstein replies that it does not matter.
—You could be Jewish. You could be Jewish and just not know it. You don’t have to give the full amount. Give half. A quarter.
He has money, but not enough of it. He is back where he began, with “The Nutty Burglars” and “Raffles the Dentist,” town after town, stage after stage, in boarding houses that reek of grease and mildew, drinking whisky in kitchens by candlelight, drinking with men who have failed and men who have yet to fail. He wishes that he had never met Isadore Bernstein. He regrets ever seeing his own face on the screen.
Because he wants this now.
He wants it more than ever.
He lies in Mae’s arms. Beyond the walls, beyond the light, someone cries a woman’s name.
You were good, Mae tells him, just as she has told him every night for the last month.
But if he were good, then the picture would be good. If the picture were good, then the picture would be released, but the picture will not be released, and therefore it must not be good. He cannot get Isadore Bernstein on the telephone. Isadore Bernstein, he suspects, may be off doing God’s work, recruiting Jews at a discount.
There will be another chance, Mae tells him, just as she has told him every night for the last month.
He looks in Mae’s dark eyes, and cannot see himself reflected. He licks at Mae’s nipple with the tip of his tongue so that he may be sure she is real, and he is real. He kisses Mae’s pale, supple flesh.
Between them, he and Mae have come up with a new identity for him, and a surname they will both share.
He adds the initials to their suitcases.
S.L. and M.L.
Like the tree, says Mae. Like the victory wreath.
Mae shifts position. She gazes down at him, and runs her hands through his hair. She moves on him, and he in her.
Within the walls, within the light, he cries her name.