by Robert Ryan
“Slasher films,” Markov said. “They started to show the things Tod had cut away from. Even in the pre-code days, you could only go so far.”
“Would he have shown it if he could?”
Markov considered the idea. “An interesting question. Knowing the sadistic paths his muse took him down, yes, I think he would.”
“I think you’re probably right. In any case, what happened that night made me think long and hard about my father’s keen sense of right and wrong—another of his traits he’d passed on to me. I decided that, if his death was going to have any meaning, I could no longer simply sit in the safe halls of academia, intellectualizing about fictional horrors, while watching those horrors becoming real enough to kill. It was time to see if there was a way to combat the evil he and I had spent so many hours lamenting.
“So, I quit teaching to become a consultant for law enforcement. Because of my background in folklore, my area of expertise became murder cases that had a ritual or occult aspect. Of which, sadly, not only has there been an endless supply, but the cases keep getting sicker and sicker. It’s a shocking eye-opener. I came to realize that evil is not just an abstract notion for academics to ponder. Evil exists. The impulse to commit the most appalling atrocities is real. No one knows where this impulse comes from, whether from within or without. All we know is that, every day, it overtakes countless human beings around the world to leave behind a trail of blood and death. I was hoping that a better understanding of what made people do these horrific things might be able to prevent some of them from happening. Might help to put the lid back on Pandora’s Box.”
“And has it?”
“Not to any noticeable degree. My last case was particularly appalling. A satanic cult making child-porn snuff films, where after the child was violated, the boy or girl was killed and offered up as a sacrifice.” Another despairing sigh escaped. “Just when you think it’s gotten as bad as it can get, it seems there’s always a deeper level of Hell.”
“Yet another thing we have in common.”
“What’s that?”
“Our journey into the deepest levels of Hell.”
Quinn couldn’t imagine a deeper level than satanic child porn. He started to say something about his Hell being real and Markov’s only being in the movies, but he wanted to steer the conversation away from the depressing turn it had taken. He had come here to pick the brain of a man who had to be a treasure trove of stories from Universal’s golden age of horror, not discuss the real-life horrors his work as a consultant made him desperately want to forget.
“Movies influencing behavior is far from new,” Markov said. “London After Midnight came out in 1927. The makeup Lon came up with for that part—especially that hideous rictus—scared people out of their wits. To the point where a man in London killed a woman, claiming he had a vision of Lon Chaney goading him into it.”
“I read about that case. He slashed her throat with a razor. But until recently, such cases were relatively rare. Now they’re all too common.”
“Life imitating art,” Markov said.
“Something like that. Be that as it may, my last case was so horrific I’m taking a hiatus. Trying to decide what I want to do with the rest of my life.”
The sound of a log rustling in the fireplace got their attention, and they turned to watch it slide off the grate amid a shower of sparks.
“It warms the body but not the soul,” Markov said.
Quinn glanced at his empty snifter. “Depends on the soul, I suppose. Some are harder to warm than others. In some of the killers I’ve seen, their soul had become a permanently frozen wasteland. If they ever had one.”
Markov swirled his brandy with an air of melancholy, then took a deliberate sip to savor its passage into his system. “So. You have given up on the horror film?”
“No, I still watch them, but not as much. Most of the newer ones are terrible, and I won’t watch the slice ’n’ dice ones. I don’t want to be repulsed. I want to be scared. When I get in the mood for a horror movie now, I usually just watch one of the old ones for the umpteenth time.”
“And yet you are bothered by their consequences for society. How do you reconcile those conflicting viewpoints?”
“They’re not reconcilable. I live with it by knowing I’ve at least tried to do something to stop human monsters.”
“Yours is an interesting story, Mr. Quinn. One, it seems, that ultimately comes down to what is at the core of every story: good versus evil.”
“Ultimately, yes.”
Markov stood, and Quinn was again impressed by his erect posture and general sturdiness for his age. “Let’s pause for refreshment.” He tugged on the rope bell and gave instructions at the door. Moments later Johnny returned with a platter of cheese, crackers, fruit, and ice water. The caretaker refilled snifters, poured water, rekindled the fire, and left.
The two men picked at the snacks in silence, sipping their drinks and gazing at the fire. Quinn stole a sidelong glance at Markov and noticed that his vague resemblance to Lugosi had disappeared, at least from this angle. Seeing him in profile, Quinn did a furtive double take.
Now, with his face partially in shadow, he seemed to resemble another Universal horror legend: Lon Chaney Jr., who portrayed the Wolf Man in the black and white classic. Markov’s large face seemed fuller, rounder, his prominent nose a bit wider.
Quinn turned his gaze back to the fire, silently chiding himself. After watching those movies so many times, he had to be engaging in a self-fulfilling prophecy. Almost willing the monsters to show up.
He stole another glance. The resemblance was still there. Another possibility struck him. Markov had been with Tod Browning on his collaborations with Lon Chaney’s father. Maybe he’d picked up a quick magician’s move for changing identities from “the Man of a Thousand Faces.”
As if on cue, a flash of lightning came through the window. These atmospheric touches pulled Quinn deeper into the mise-en-scène of this real-life movie world. Caressed by the warm embrace of the fire, soothed and warmed from within by the brandy, he savored the pleasure he’d experienced vicariously so many times while watching movie scenes played out by the hearth. Now, instead of watching the scene, he was in it.
In one deft movement Markov pushed his plate aside, nestled his snifter in one hand, and melded himself into his chair. Swirling and sniffing the amber liquid, he lifted his glass in salute and took a deliberate sip. “You appear to be in very good shape, Mr. Quinn.”
“I decided years ago I wasn’t going to be the nerdy, rumpled stereotype of the college professor. I run and I work out. In what some of my colleagues used to tell me was an overcompensating move, I played rugby for several years. I’d rather wear out than rust out.”
“A good philosophy,” Markov said. After they each sipped their brandies, he said, “Now I shall tell you about my Dracula experience—in its own way a tale of good versus evil.”
CHAPTER 4
Hypnotic reflections from the fire animated Markov’s chameleonic expression as he began to weave his tale.
“I believe in destiny, Mr. Quinn. And just as destiny has led you to me, destiny led me to Dracula. As a boy, I’d had a love of movies since the first moment I went to one. This was during the silent era.
“My childhood was not a happy one. Cruel father, weak mother. As destiny would have it, not only did we live in Los Angeles, we lived only a few blocks from Broadway. One movie palace after another got built on that street. The public couldn’t get enough. My father was happy to have me out of the house, and my mother let me do anything, so from the time I was six they would give me the money and let me go by myself.
“I would sit in the magnificent Orpheum—a gold-lined movie kingdom, I its little king—watching whatever was showing over and over. Wishing I could trade places with the people up on the screen. I wanted to stay there and never leave. To be in the movies up on the screen, literally. Of course, even then I knew that wasn’t possible. S
ome part of my young brain knew that the people up there weren’t real, that they somehow materialized on the screen. I became obsessed with knowing how movie magic was done.
“I began pestering the projectionist. He took me under his wing, showed me how film worked, how movies were really a series of still photos creating the illusion of movement. I would become mesmerized looking at those small individual frames of my movie idols, bits of their lives frozen forever.
“I hung around the theater every spare moment, eventually working there during summer vacations from school. I saw every movie over and over, studying them, watching how the camera was set up, how it moved, where the cuts were. That was the beginning of my film education. I devoured every word I could find on filmmaking. There wasn’t much in those days, but there was enough to give me the basic idea.
“In 1918, I sneaked into the premiere at the first Grauman’s. I remember it vividly. So many stars and famous directors, I thought I had died and gone to heaven. Charlie Chaplin. D. W. Griffith. Cecil B. DeMille. Tod later told me he was there, although I didn’t know him then.
“I got a job there that summer. It was thrilling to be working in what was then the state-of-the-art in motion picture exhibition. My film education was developing right along with the development of cinema.
“The next summer I graduated from high school with one burning goal: to work at a Hollywood studio. Security seemed more lax at Universal, and from reading the trades I knew Tod Browning was filming his latest picture there. I’d been following his work since The Eyes of Mystery. It was the type of film I loved: a spooky gothic chiller, full of hidden sliding doors, secret passages, all of that. From reading all the movie gossip, I’d also learned that Tod was a huge baseball fan, and that since he was from Louisville, he rooted for the Cincinnati Reds. Armed with that bit of information, I hatched a plan that might get me in to see him. I knew very little about baseball, but I made it my business to learn everything I could, especially about the Cincinnati team.
“Again, as fate would have it, they were running away with the National League that year. 1919. Tod was thirty-nine, which meant he had probably been rooting for them for thirty years or so, and they had always been mediocre. Now that they would almost certainly be going to the World Series for the first time, I knew the fan part of him had to be very excited. Since timing is everything, I gambled on waiting to see if the Reds would win the pennant, which I knew would put him in a great mood and help my plan. They were so much better than the other teams that year that they clinched the pennant by mid-September.
“First thing the next morning, I put my plan in motion. I played hooky and went to the nearest Western Union office to send a telegram to Tod. But instead of having them deliver it to the studio, I gave them the address of a ne’er-do-well school chum. Jed Prater. His parents never seemed to be around, and he was always ready to skip school for any shady scheme.
“A couple weeks earlier, I had bought a Western Union uniform from one of the ushers I worked with at Grauman’s. He worked for Western Union part-time and was happy to sell me one of his old uniforms for the then-astronomical sum of ten dollars. So after receiving the telegram at Jed’s, I donned the uniform and marched confidently up to Universal’s front gate, telling the guard I had a telegram for Mr. Browning that had to be signed for by him personally.”
A hint of an appreciative smile tilted Markov’s mouth.
“All those hours I had spent in front of the mirror imitating my favorite actors must have paid off, because the guard sent for a production assistant to escort me to Mr. Browning, no questions asked.”
“What did the telegram say?”
“Something like, ‘Dear Mr. Browning: You probably don’t remember me, but we met at one of your premieres and talked about our love of the Cincinnati Reds. Looks like our boys finally made it. Just wanted to share the moment with someone who has suffered for as long as I have. Maybe you can make a movie about this year’s team one of these days.’
“I had signed it George Smith, purposely choosing the commonest name I could think of to avoid being traced. I knew he must meet so many people he’d never remember this person. I had also planned the timing very carefully. From reading the trades I knew that productions took a break for lunch. I also knew that, at Universal at least, stars and directors often had their own bungalows. If I could catch Tod there, I might have him all to myself for a few minutes to make my pitch. I arrived at the gate at exactly 12:05, to allow him time to get to his bungalow and get settled in. I was indeed taken to his bungalow. Again destiny took me by the hand.
“Just as I was about to go in Tod’s bungalow, Irving Thalberg was coming out. The ‘Boy Wonder’ himself. I recognized him instantly from having seen his picture so often in the trades. Tod waved me over, smiling from ear to ear. After he read the telegram, he looked me up and down.
‘Son,’ he said, ‘you must be my lucky charm. Do you know who that man was who just walked out?’
‘Certainly, sir. Irving Thalberg. He’s in charge of production at Universal.’
‘Indeed he is. And for my next picture he just assigned me to direct Universal’s biggest production ever.’
“With just the right note of breathless admiration, I said, ‘A Jewel DeLuxe Production?’”
‘You seem to know the moving picture business very well, young man.’
“I assured him that I did, quickly rattling off my experience, telling him I wanted moviemaking to be my life, and that if he could give me a job I would do anything that needed doing to make his life easier. I remember him fiddling with his mustache for a moment, then saying the words that changed my life forever: ‘Maybe I could use a good-luck charm when I’m getting ready to start the biggest picture of my career.’
“He told me to report to the gate the next morning and he would find something for me to do. From that point on he always called me Lucky.”
Quinn cocked his head. “That’s interesting. Tod’s biography mentions that, after he retired to Malibu, he became very fond of a house painter named Lucky. They became drinking buddies, to the point where Tod told Lucky that, when he died, he wanted him to come to his funeral and spend the night toasting him with Coors. Which supposedly actually happened.”
“That wasn’t the house painter drinking those toasts at his funeral. That was me. The painter and I looked a little alike, and people didn’t know either of us very well. Tod told me he called that man Lucky sometimes, because with me no longer around, he hoped using the name would bring him luck.”
That explained all the Coors cans he’d seen earlier. They were a tribute to Browning.
“I became Tod’s right arm,” Markov continued. “No one could have had a better film education. For years I was at his side, learning everything conceivable about filmmaking, from the best in the business. When he was sure no producers were around, he even let me direct a few scenes. I was with him on all the Chaney-Browning films, which were largely manifestations of Tod’s sadistic, twisted view of life—a vision I shared. Tod had been called the Edgar Allan Poe of the cinema. He considered that a great compliment, since he thought Poe was one of the great masters of horror. So did I. I wanted to follow in Tod’s footsteps, become the ultimate horror director, make the ultimate horror picture. Thus began my—to borrow Poe’s phrase—descent into the maelstrom.”
He fell silent as Johnny came in without being summoned, tending to the fire and their drinks, gathering up empty plates. The caretaker stopped near Markov, gaze directed toward the floor, posture slightly tilted by the bad leg. “Will there be anything else?”
“No, thank you, Johnny. We shall take care of ourselves for the rest of the evening.”
The servant nodded and cast a quick glance at Quinn. In the seconds that they held each other’s gaze, Quinn sensed Johnny trying to convey something, perhaps a desire to talk privately. He watched the steward of the castle shuffle away, wanting to see if there would be a second glance to strengthen t
he vague hint of the first, but Johnny never turned around.
Markov made a point of waiting until the door was closed before going on. “Tod and Lon had been talking about doing Dracula for years. Since Bram Stoker’s widow was keeping an iron grip on the movie rights, in 1927 they made their cleverly disguised version: London After Midnight. The first American vampire film,” he added with a trace of pride. “Not only did it scare audiences to death, it was their biggest box-office smash. We all figured that sooner or later someone would get the rights to Dracula, so while we were shooting London After Midnight, Lon started to develop his Dracula makeup. Finally Universal got the rights, and Carl Laemmle gave his son the green light to make the picture—with the stipulation that Lon Chaney play Dracula. Unfortunately, Lon died before production began.”
Quinn said, “Which opened the door that led to Bela Lugosi’s screen immortality.”
A hint of the Transylvanian actor flickered across Markov’s face and quickly disappeared. “He certainly put his stamp on the role, but we’ll never know what Lon might have done. Although I have a short he made that gives a good idea.”
“I would love to see it.”
Markov nodded. “In any case, we filmed Dracula with Lugosi, and by the time we were done, I felt my film education was complete. My mind was brimming with creative ways to use the camera—and now, sound—to scare people. Filmmaking is a technology-driven art and, as fate would have it, I had a genius for technology. I could instantly grasp how things worked, and I had been tutored by the best as each new innovation came in. I had learned how to record sound, for example, by sitting at the elbow of Douglas Shearer when we were at MGM.”
“Douglas Shearer,” Quinn said. “An absolute giant in the development of sound. His name is in the credits of virtually every MGM film for decades.”
