He and Babe make Great Guns.
They make A-Haunting We Will Go.
They make Air Raid Wardens.
They make Jitterbugs.
They make The Dancing Masters.
They make Nothing But Trouble.
They make The Big Noise.
They make The Bullfighters.
Fox and MGM are their new overseers, but he cannot rouse himself even to indifference. There is to be no artistic control, and he will have no input on scripts. He will not be permitted to edit, and the directors will not listen to his ideas.
Fox strips them of their hats and suits.
Fox strips them of their nobility.
Fox strips them of their characters.
What are we? he asks.
And Babe replies, We are what we have always been.
—But this is not how we are. I don’t recognize these men.
They are strangers among strangers. They are strangers even unto themselves.
No one at Fox values them, and they are relegated to the B-picture crews, but their work makes money for the studio. Ben Shipman shows him the figures. Ben Shipman tells him that Great Guns could earn a profit of $250,000 for Fox.
Ben Shipman is wrong.
Great Guns earns twice that amount.
So the pictures are profitable, but they are profitable despite few of those involved even pretending to respect what is put before the Audience. Budgets are quoted, but the money never makes it to the screen. Actors are cast, but they cannot act. Directors are assigned, but they will countenance no collaboration. Even when he is finally permitted to co-direct, he is not credited, as though his input is an indulgence that might damage the studio’s reputation were it to be formally acknowledged.
Do you know why these pictures make money? he asks Ben Shipman.
—They make money because of you and Babe.
—No, they make money because we are selling our legacy, frame by frame. Nobody likes these pictures. The Audience comes because it loved us once.
—The Audience loves you still, or else it wouldn’t be there.
—No, the Audience loves only the memory of us. It loves men who no longer exist.
It is left to Babe to intervene, Babe to salvage, Babe to persuade, Babe to console. Babe is practical. The IRS wants money. Myrtle, Babe’s ex-wife, wants money. What is a man to do, but work?
Times are changing, says Babe. Maybe we ought to change with them.
And he understands. Babe does not entirely resent being released from a jacket too tight, a hat too small. Babe contains more than one persona within him. So, perhaps, does he, but he has never chafed at the constraint.
—But if we change, what do we become?
And these pictures give him an answer.
They must become, like all old men, supporting players in the lives of others.
They must become the shadows of themselves.