The Starcrossed
Page 20
The science fiction fans laughed and jeered at all the commercials, especially the last one. They bicycled, whenever and wherever the air was safe enough to breathe.
Then the comer of the room where the three-dee projector cast its images went absolutely black. The fans went silent with anticipation. Then a thread of music began, too faint to really pick out the tune. A speck of light appeared in the middle of the pool of blackness. Then another. Two stars, moving toward each other. The music swelled.
“Hey, that tune is ‘When You Wish Upon a Star!’”
“Sssshhh.” Nineteen hisses.
The two stars turned out to be starships and bold letters spelled out “The Starcrossed” over them. The fans cheered and applauded.
Two minutes later, after another dozen commercials, they were gaping.
“Look at how solid they are!”
“It’s like they’re really here in the room. No scintillations at all.”
“It’s a damned-near perfect projection.”
“I wish we had a life-sized set.”
“You can reach out and touch them!”
“I wouldn’t mind touching her!”
“Or him. He’s got muscles. Not like the guys around here.”
“And she’s got.…”
Twelve hisses, all from female throats, drowned him out.
Fifteen minutes later, they were still gaping, but now their comments were:
“This is pretty slow for an opening show.”
“It’s pretty slow, period.”
“That hockey player acts better in the Garden when they call a foul on him.”
“Shuddup. I want to watch Juliet breathe.”
Halfway into the second act they were saying:
“Who wrote this crud?”
“It’s awful”
“They must be dubbing Romeo’s speeches. His mouth doesn’t sync with the words.”
“Who cares? The words are dumb.”
They laughed. They groaned. They threw marshmallows at the solid looking images and watched the little white missiles sail right through the performers. When the show finally ended:
“What a wagonload of crap!”
“Well, at least the girl was good-looking.”
“Good-looking? She’s sensational!”
“But the story. Ugh!”
“What story?”
“There was a story?”
“Maybe its supposed to be a children’s show.”
“Or a spoof.”
“It wasn’t funny enough to be a spoof.”
“Or intelligent enough to be a children’s show. Giant amoebas in space!”
“It’ll set science fiction back ten years, at least.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” the President Emeritus said, clutching his walking stick. “I thought it was pretty funny in places.”
“In the wrong places.”
“One thing, though. That new projection system is terrific. I’m going to scrounge up enough money to buy a lifesized three-dee. They’ve finally worked all the bugs out of it.”
“Yeah.”
“Right. Let’s get a life-sized set for the clubroom.”
“Do we have enough money in the treasury?”
“We do,” said the treasurer, “if we cancel the rocket launch in March.”
“Cancel it,” the president said. “Let’s see if the show gets any better. We can always scratch up more money for a rocket launch.”
In Pete’s Tavern in downtown Manhattan, the three-dee set was life-sized. The regulars sat on their stools with their elbows on the bar and watched “The Starcrossed” actors galumph across the corner where the jukebox used to be.
After the first few minutes, most of them turned back to the bar and resumed their drinking.
“That’s Francois Dulaq, the hockey star?”
“Indeed it is, my boy.”
“Terrible. Terrible. “
“Hey, Kenno, turn on the hockey game. At least we can see some action. This thing stinks.”
But one of the women, chain smoking while sipping daiquiris and petting the toy poodle in her lap, stared with fascination at the life-sized three-dimensional images in the corner. “What a build on him,” she murmured to the poodle.
In the Midwest the show went on an hour later.
Eleven ministers of various denominations stared incredulously at Rita Yearling and immediately began planning sermons for Sunday on the topic of the shamelessness of modern women. They watched the show to the very end.
The cast and crew of As You Like It caught the show during a rehearsal at the Guthrie Theatre in Minneapolis. They decided they didn’t like it at all and asked their director to pen an open letter to Titanic Productions, demanding a public apology to William Shakespeare.
The science fiction classes at the University of Kansas—eleven hundred strong—watched the show in the University’s Gunn Amphitheater. After the first six minutes, no one could hear the dialogue because of the laughing, catcalls and boos from the sophisticated undergraduates and grad students. The professor who held the Harrison Chair and therefore directed the science fiction curriculum decided that not hearing the dialogue was a mercy. The six-man police force of Cisco, Texas, voted Rita Yearling “The Most Arresting Three-Dee Personality.”
The Hookers Convention in Reno voted Francois Dulaq “Neatest Trick of the Year.”
The entire state of Utah somehow got the impression that the end of the world had come a step closer.
In Los Angeles, the cadaverous young man who wrote television criticism for the Free Press-News-Times smiled as he turned on his voice recorder. Ron Gabriel had stolen three starlets from him in the past year. Now was the moment of his revenge.
He even felt justified.
The editor-in-chief of the venerable TV Guide, in his Las Vegas office, shook his head in despair. “How in the world am I going to put a good face on this piece of junk?” he asked a deaf heaven.
In Oakland, the staff of the most influential science fiction newsletter watched the show to its inane end—where Dulaq (playing Rom, or Romeo) improvises a giant syringe from one of his starship’s rocket tubes and kills the spaceroving Giant Amoeba with a thousand liter shot of penicillin.
Charles Brown III heaved a mighty sigh. The junior editors, copyreaders and collators sitting at his feet held their breath, waiting for his pronouncement.
“Stinks,” he said simply.
High on a mountainside in the Cascade Range, not far from Glacier Park, a bearded writer clicked off his threedee set and sat in the darkness of his mist-enshrouded chalet. For many minutes he simply sat and thought.
Then he snapped his fingers and his voice recorder came rolling out of its slot on smoothly oiled little trunions. “Take a letter,” he said to the simple-minded robot and its red ON light winked with electrical pleasure. “No, make it a telegram. To Ran Gabriel. The ’puter has his address in its memory. Dear Ron: Have plenty of room up here in the hills if you need to get away from the flak. Come on up. The air’s clean and the women are dirty. What more can I say? Signed, Herb. Make it collect.”
And in Bernard Finger’s home in the exclusive Watts section of Greater Los Angeles, doctors shuttled in and out, like substitute players for the Honolulu Pineapples, manfully struggling to save the mogul of Titanic Productions from what appeared to be-from the symptoms—the world’s first case of manic convulsive paranoid cardiac insufficiency, with lockjaw on the side.
: : : : : :
BARD SPINS AS “STARCROSSED” DRAGS
Variety
NEW THREE-DEE TECHNIQUE IS ONLY SOLID FEATURE OF “STARCROSSED”
NY Times-Herald-Voice
CAPSULE REVIEW
By Gerrold Saul
“The Starcrossed,” which premiered last night on nationwide network three-dee, is undoubtedly the worst piece of alleged drama ever foisted on the viewers.
Despite the gorgeous good looks of Rita Yearling and the stubborn handsomeness
of hockey star Frankie Dulake, the show has little to offer. Ron Gabriel’s script—even disguised under a whimsical penname—has all the life and bounce of the proverbial lead dirigible. While the sets were adequate and the costumes arresting, the story made no sense whatsoever. And the acting was nonexistent. Stalwart though he may be in the hockey rink, Dulaq’s idea of drama is to peer into the cameras and grimace.
The technical feat of producing really solid three-dimensional images was impressive. Titanic Productions’ new technique will probably be copied by all the other studios, because it makes everything else look pale and wan by comparison.
If only the script had been equal to the electronics!
LA Free Press-News-Times
TV GUIDE
America’s Oldest and Most Respected Television Magazine
Contents
“The Starcrossed:” Can a Science Fiction Show Succeed by Spoofing Science Fiction?
Technical Corner: New Three-Dee Projection Technique Heralds End of “Blinking Blues”
The New Lineups: Networks Unveil “Third Season” Shows, and Prepare for “Fourth Season” in Seven Weeks
A Psychologist Warns: Portraying Love in Three-Dee Could Confuse Teenagers
Nielsen Reports: “Mongo’s Mayhem” and “Shoot-Out” Still Lead in Popularity
MITCH WESTERLY, MYSTERY MAN OF TELEVISION
Playperson
WHY RITA YEARLING CRIED WHEN SHE FLEW TO TORONTO
TV Love Stars
DULAQ NOT SCORING, CANADIAN MAPLE STARS NOT WINNING
Sporting News
CAN A GAY PORTRAY A STRAIGHT ON TV? AND IF SO, WHY?
Liberty
NEW THREE-DEE PROJECTION SYSTEM FULLY SUCCESSFUL
Scintillation-Free Images Result from Picosecond Control Units Developed by Oxnard Laboratory in California
: : : : : :
Dr. Oxnard Claims System Can Be Adapted to ‘Animate’ Still Photos; Obviate Need for Actors in TV
Electronics News
17: THE OUTCOME
Bill Oxnard grimaced with concentration as he maneuvered his new Electric TR into Ron Gabriel’s driveway. Ordinarily it would have been an easy task, but the late winter rainstorm made visibility practically nil and there was a fair-sized van parked at the curb directly in front of the driveway.
The front door of the house was open and a couple of burly men in coveralls were taking out the long sectional sofa that had curled around Gabriel’s living room. They grunted and swore under their breaths as they swung their burden around the Electric TR. The sofa was so big that if they had dropped it on the sportscar, they would have flattened it.
Brenda looked upset as she got out of the righthand seat. “They’re taking his furniture!” She dashed into the house. Oxnard was a step behind her. It only took three long strides to get inside the foyer, but the rain was hard enough to soak him, even so.
There were no lights on inside the house. The furniture movers had left a hand torch glowing in the living room. Oxnard watched them reenter the house, trailing muddy footprints and dripping water, to grab the other chairs in the living room.
Brenda said, “Bill! And they’ve turned off his electricity!” She was very upset and Oxnard found himself feeling pleased with her concern, rather than jealous over it. She’s really a marvelous person, he told himself.
They looked around the darkened house for a few minutes and finally found Ron Gabriel sitting alone in the kitchen, in candlelight.
“Ron, why didn’t you tell us?” Brenda blurted.
Gabriel looked surprised and, in the flickering light of the lone candle, a bit annoyed.
“Tell you what?”
“We would have helped you, wouldn’t we, Bill?”
“Of course,” Oxnard said. “If you’re broke, Ron, or run out of credit…”
“What’re you talking about?” Gabriel pushed himself up from the table. He was wearing his old Bruce Lee robe.
“We’ve been following the reviews of ‘The Starcrossed,’” said Brenda. “We saw what a panning the scripts took. They’re blaming you for everything…”
“And when we saw them taking away your furniture…”
“And no electricity…”
A lithe young girl walked uncertainly into the kitchen, dressed in a robe identical to Gabriel’s. The candlelight threw coppery glints from her hair, which flowed like a cascade of molten red-gold over her slim shoulders.
With a you guys are crazy look, Gabriel introduced, “Cindy Steele, this is Brenda Impanema and Bill Oxnard, two of my loony friends.”
“Hello,” said Cindy, in a tiny little voice.
Brenda smiled at her and Oxnard nodded.
“We were going to have a quiet little candlelight dinner,” Gabriel said, “just the two of us. Before the Ding-Doug Furniture Company came in with my new gravity-defying float-chair. And the Salvation Army came by to pick up my old living room furniture, which I donated to them. And my friends started going spastic for fear that I was broke and starving.”
“Is that what…” Brenda didn’t quite believe it.
But Oxnard did. He started laughing. “I guess we jumped to the wrong conclusion Come on,” he held out a hand to Brenda, “we’ve got a candlelight dinner of our own to see to.”
Gabriel’s eyebrows shot up. “Yeah? Really?” He came around the table and looked at the two of them closely. “Son of a gun.” He grinned.
They walked out to the foyer together, the four of them, Gabriel between Oxnard and Brenda, Cindy trailing slightly behind, twirling a curl of hair in one finger.
“Hey look,” Gabriel said. “Come on back after dinner. For dessert. Got a lot to tell you.”
“Oh, I don’t think…” Brenda began.
“We’ll be back in a couple of hours,” Oxnard said. “We’ve got a lot to tell you, too.”
“Great. Bring back some pie or something.”
“And give us at least three hours,” Cindy said, smiling and walking the fingers of one hand across the back of Gabriel’s shoulders. “I’m a slow cooker.”
It was just after midnight when Gabriel, Brenda and Oxnard tried out the new floatchairs. They were like an arrangement of airfoam cushions out of the Arabian Nights, except that they floated a dozen centimeters above coppery disks that rested on the floor.
“It’s like sitting on a cloud!” Brenda said, snuggling down on the cushions as they adjusted to fit her form.
“Takes a lot of electricity to maintain the field, doesn’t it?” Oxnard asked.
“You bet,” snapped Gabriel. “And you clowns thought they’d turned off my power.”
“Where’s Cindy?” asked Brenda.
Gabriel gave a tiny shrug. “Probably fell asleep in the whirlpool bath. She does that, sometimes. Nice kid, but not too bright.”
“So what’s your news?” Oxnard asked, anxious to tell his own.
Leaning back in his cushions, Gabriel said, “You know all the flak they’ve been throwing at me about the scripts for ‘The Starcrossed’? Well my original script—the one that little creepy censor and Earnest tore to shreds—is going to get the Screen Writer’s award next month as the best dramatic script of the year.”
“Ron, that’s great!”
Gabriel crowed, “And the Guild is asking the Canadian Department of Labor to sue Badger for using child labor—the high school kids who wrote scripts without getting paid!”
“Can they do that?”
Nodding, Gabriel said, “The lawyers claim they can and they’re naming Gregory Earnest as a codefendant, along with Badger Studios.”
‘The suit won’t affect Titanic, will it?” Brenda asked, looking around.
“Can’t. It’s limited to Canadian law.”
“That’s good; B.F.’s had enough trouble over “The Starcrossed.’”
“Nothing he didn’t earn, sweetie,” Gabriel said.
“Maybe so,” Brenda said. “But enough is enough. He’ll be getting out of the hospital ne
xt week and I don’t want him hurt anymore.”
Gabriel shook his head. “You’re damned protective of that louse.”
Oxnard glanced at Brenda. She controled herself perfectly. He knew what was going through her mind: He may be a louse, but he’s the only louse in the world who’s my father.
“Has the show been cancelled yet?” Gabriel Asked.
“No,” Brenda said. “Its being renewed for the remainder of the season.”
“What?”
Oxnard said, “Same reaction I had. Wait’ll you hear why.”
“What’s going on?” Gabriel asked, suddenly a-quiver with interest.
“Lots,” Brenda said. “Titanic is receiving about a thousand letters a week from the viewers. Most of them are science fiction fans complaining about the show; but they have to watch it to complain about it. The Nielsen ratings have been so-so, but there’s been a good number of letters asking for pictures of Rita and personal mail for her. She’s become the center of a new Earth Mother cult—most of the letters are from pubescent boys.”
“My god,” Gabriel moaned.
“Goddess,” corrected Oxnard.
“Also,” Brenda went on, “Rita’s apparently got her talons into Keith Conors, the TNT man. So the show’s assured of a sponsor for the rest of the season. She’s got him signing commitments ‘til his head’s spinning.”
With a rueful nod, Gabriel admitted, “She can do that.”
“The New York bankers seem pleased. The show is making money. The critics hate it, of course, but its bringing in some money.”