The Age of Dreaming

by Nina Revoyr

  But as I walked back to my town house after our meal, it occurred to me that there could very well be people who were still curious about those events from the distant past. It wasn’t likely that anyone was pursuing the matter; as Mrs. Bradford said, one did not hear much anymore about the Tyler murder. But with the new theater opening, and especially with Bellinger’s article, interest in that era might be stirred up again and produce this piece of unresolved history. I wondered if there were people I should try to find in order to clear up any potential misunderstandings—people like David Rosenberg, my old acquaintance at Perennial, who was present for the scandal and aftermath. As I thought more about the attention that would accompany Bellinger’s article—and then, especially, when I thought about the possibility of being considered for a part in his film—I concluded that it would indeed be prudent to find these people and ensure that the record was clear.

  And so it happened that I went to visit David Rosenberg this morning at the St. Mary’s Retirement Home in Culver City. I had found my old colleague by calling the seven “David Rosenbergs” that were listed in the phone book, until I reached his son, Nathan, who was living in his old house. Nathan knew who I was, and seemed delighted to hear from me; he directed me to the retirement home where his father had been living for the last three years, battling Parkinson’s disease. So I warmed up my car and made the short drive to Culver City. I took the surface streets past the old MGM studio, driving directly over the spot at La Cienega and Venice where the great chariot race scene was filmed for Ben-Hur, and then headed up the winding hills of the Culver Crest until I reached St. Mary’s. It was, for a nursing home, a beautiful place, an old Spanish-style estate with a half-dozen buildings arranged along the top of a hill.

  I parked my car and went into the front of what looked like the main building, and announced myself to the nuns behind the desk. But when a nurse led me to the patio, where a cluster of elderly residents sat in oversized wheelchairs and gazed out toward the ocean, I could not believe that the folded-in man she pointed out was my old friend David Rosenberg. He was about the same age as I, but looked twenty years older. Rosenberg had been formidable as a younger man, large and carelessly handsome, and it was startling to see him so reduced. When he turned to face me, though, I saw the same liveliness in his dark eyes that I had seen on a daily basis during the years we worked together at Perennial.

  “Jun!” he said, patting my arm with his hand. “What a wonderful surprise! When Nathan told me that you’d called, I was sure he was kidding. You look the same, I see. Wish that were true for me.”

  I put my own hand on top of his, which was trembling a little. “It’s good to see you, David. How have you been?”

  “Well, if you had two or three weeks to spare, I’d tell you.” He gestured for me to pull up a chair, which I did. We sat looking out at the view in silence, not knowing where to start. I stole glances at him now and again, examining the deep lines in his face, the unmistakable shaking of his arms and legs. “This place isn’t bad, as far as retirement homes go,” he said. “There are a few other old geezers who are still up to playing poker or watching a ball game, and the nurses here are generally nice. Never thought I’d find this old Jew in a Catholic-run joint, but my daughter-in-law’s father is the head of the board, and this is supposed to be the best place on the Westside. Besides, I thought it would be too depressing to live with all those washed-up picture people at the Motion Picture Relief Fund Home. Too many egos and neuroses, not to mention shoddy facelifts. I’d rather be with the regular people. So here I am.”

  I smiled and leaned back in my chair. “It seems quite comfortable here.”

  “Well, I’d rather not be here at all, you know. But when the Parkinson’s hit, I couldn’t really be by myself anymore, and I was too much for Nathan to handle. He’s a good boy—I shouldn’t call him a boy, he’s forty-six now, with two teenagers himself—but life seems to move too fast these days for people to care for aging parents.” He chuckled. “Listen to me. As if life wasn’t moving fast when we were young.”

  “We certainly weren’t lacking for excitement. We worked hard, but we enjoyed ourselves too.”

  “We did work hard,” said Rosenberg, struggling to pull himself up in his chair. “Look at the industry now—how Perennial and UA and MGM seem bigger and older than God. But we were there at the beginning, we watched them take their first steps. Without men like us, Jun, those great studios wouldn’t be what they are today. Hollywood wouldn’t even be Hollywood.”

  “It’s true,” I agreed. “The Valentinos, the Chaplins, everyone remembers them. But the men like us have largely been forgotten.”

  We were quiet for a moment, both lost in our own thoughts. David tried to pat my arm again, but his hand shook so badly that it hit my leg instead. “I’m sorry, Jun. I don’t mean to sound so depressing. I’ve been sitting here feeling sorry for myself and haven’t asked a thing about you. How’s life treated you since we saw each other last? Do you have a gorgeous wife? Are there children?”

  I shook my head. “No, David. I never married.”

  He considered me with genuine surprise. “But you had women scratching each other’s eyes out over you. What happened? You weren’t willing to give up the bachelor’s life?”

  “No, I just never found the right woman.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, and we dropped off into silence. Around us, several other residents were talking in loud voices to the pigeons that had gathered for bread. Beneath their voices was the sound of someone moaning, so soft I wasn’t sure I really heard it.

  “Listen, Jun,” David said. “What brings you here today? I can’t imagine that time has changed you that much, and you were never the type to just drop in for a friendly chat.”

  I cleared my throat and placed my hands on my lap, trying to control my suddenly racing heart. “In fact, there is something I would like to discuss with you. I’ve been approached by someone who’s doing an article about the new silent movie theater. It turns out that he’s also a screenwriter with a film that may go into production—and he wants me to play a part in his movie.”

  Rosenberg struggled to turn toward me. “A part in a movie! Really? Why Jun, that’s wonderful!”

  I held my hands up before he got too carried away. “Nothing is certain yet; Perennial’s still considering it. But Bellinger, the young man, seems very sincere.” I paused. “His contact at Perennial is Ben Dreyfus’ grandson. Did you know that he’s the head of production now?”

  David shifted in his chair. “Yes,” he said in a tone that seemed faintly disapproving. “He’s been making quite a killing these last few years. Remember Leap of Faith, that lucrative piece of fiuff? Well, that was his. And several others like it.”

  I digested this information for a moment. “Well, the two young men are apparently good friends, and Bellinger has been speaking to Dreyfus’ grandson on my behalf. Bellinger is very excited that he’s managed to track me down. He’s seen several of my films, he said; his parents are collectors. He’s been trying to talk to others who were around in those years—and he’s very interested in my time at Perennial.”

  David turned back toward the horizon—it was a clear day, and we could make out the shape of Catalina Island in the distance. He was quiet for so long that I wasn’t sure he’d heard me. Then finally he said, “Don’t worry, Jun. If he comes to me, I won’t tell him anything.”

  I lowered my eyes. “I’m not asking you to mislead anyone. I would just hope that you would exercise discretion. You know how the public is these days; they take little things and make far too much of them.”

  David looked down at his own hands now, observing his shaking fingers as if they belonged to someone else. “You don’t have to worry, Jun. It was a difficult time for all of us. But if you’re concerned about anybody making too much of things, maybe you should go speak with some of the others from the old days.”

  “I’ve thought of that,” I said. “
But I don’t know where to start.”

  He curled one hand into a loose fist and brought it to his chin, as if pressing it there would stimulate a thought. “All the studio men are gone, at least the ones you would have worked with—your directors and all the execs.”

  I nodded. “There really aren’t too many of us left.”

  “I don’t know if this would help,” he said, “but Owen Hopkins is still alive. He was quoted in a piece in the Times about the old District Attorney, Crittendon, and all the corruption in his office.”

  I remembered Detective Hopkins. He was a young man himself in the brief time I knew him, a steady, earnest sort who seemed out of place amongst the coarse, hardened older men he worked with. The more I thought about his role in the events of that time, the more I realized that Rosenberg’s suggestion made sense.

  “And,” he said cautiously, “you should also talk to Nora. Lord only knows where she is now, but it can’t hurt to cover that base.”

  I did not reply to his suggestion immediately, glancing instead at a pair of squirrels who were chattering at each other on the lawn. Then finally I said, “Your advice is always useful, David. I knew I was doing the right thing by coming to see you.”

  Rosenberg placed one hand on top of the other, as if trying to hold it still. “It’s a shame you still have to worry about this. Some things should stay forgotten.”

  I laughed softly and changed the subject, directing my old friend’s attention to a trio of new buildings that were going up near the 405 freeway. We talked of old times and of how the city had changed, and when David’s breathing grew heavy and he paused longer before speaking, I took my leave of him and drove back down the hill.

  This evening, as I sit here attempting to read, my mind keeps wandering back to my visit with David. It startled me to see him in such ill health, and I wonder if I looked as old to him as he had looked to me. When we were young, it seemed like aging only happened to other, less fortunate people; we worked and lived and stayed up all night as if we were immune to the claims of time. David went on, in the ’30s and ’40s, to become a mid-level executive, but he never rose to the heights one might have predicted for such a pleasant and talented man. Perhaps his ambition was held in check by his careful and scrupulous nature; perhaps, like so many of us, he’d been suited to a simpler time. He was a good man, and he’d always been friendly to me, and all in all I’d been happy to see him. But my vivid recollections of him in his youth made his current condition even more troubling. He had spent his whole life in the service of pictures. And like so many of us, he’d simply been forgotten.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  It seemed like David Rosenberg was always there during my most important moments at Perennial. He was at the studio, for example, the day I met Nora Niles. He was also there on the night I met the man who would shape the rest of my career, the British director Ashley Bennett Tyler.

  I met Tyler at a party at the Ship Café, which was, in the spring and summer of 1917, extremely popular with the Hollywood set. Unlike the formal Alexandria or the staid Tiffany Hotel, the Ship was a place where people let loose. It extended like a pier from the edge of the beach and reached out over the water. The design, feel, and fixtures were so authentic that on that one occasion, when I’d had too much to drink, I was convinced that we were fioating out to sea. The large, inviting dance fioor was always crowded, and the country’s most popular bands would play on the stage. Waiters in black suits and white gloves glided through the crowd, balancing trays full of drinks. The air was thick with cigar smoke and the anxiety of picture people all attempting to secure their next deals. When stars were at the Ship—and they almost always were—they would often take the stage for impromptu performances; I remember one night when the comedian Tuggy Figgins instigated a shoe-throwing contest, for which the men— and some ladies—stood up on stage and aimed their shoes across the room at a bucket of punch. Everyone at the Ship seemed to know each other, or knew someone who knew someone else; the place was so exclusive that it often felt like you needed to show your credits to get inside.

  That evening’s party had been thrown by the studio on Tyler’s behalf, in celebration of his latest picture, The New Frontier, which had just premiered that night at the Egyptian. Although Tyler had already made half a dozen films, our paths had not yet crossed, and I was curious to meet the British director who suddenly had the whole town talking. I had recently seen two or three of his films, which were markedly different from what was already becoming standard picture fare. Instead of silly romantic plots or slapstick comedies, Tyler wove tales of psychological and moral complexity. His new film was the story of an East Coast family who’d moved into the wilds of California. The setting was physical—vast and open, unlike the crowded streets of Boston—but the action was metaphysical, as the settlers struggled to forge an identity in this entirely different world. It had struck me as the work of a transplanted outsider, someone who never lost his sense of otherness despite the apparent confidence with which he moved through his new surroundings.

  I attended the film and party with a chatty young lady whose name I can no longer recall. She was certainly an actress, or at least was trying to be; over the previous year she’d had bit parts in several forgettable pictures. We danced a few dances together, and then sat at a table with the actors Herman Spencer and Edmund Cleaves. I did not stay seated for very long, however, for young woman after young woman came over to us, imploring, “Jun! Jun! Won’t you please come dance with me?” And I did, indulging them all, spinning to the music, my senses full of their lovely faces and soft white shoulders and fragrant, luxurious hair. Annoyed by my fiagging attention to her, my date fiitted off into the crowd. I didn’t mind—I had plenty of acquaintances at the party—and it was the kind of vibrant, celebratory evening that made me happy just to be among people, to be who I was at that moment in time.

  I had just commenced a discussion with Herman Spencer about Tyler’s new film when I looked up and saw the director himself. He was sitting on a bar stool at the edge of the crowd, holding a half-empty glass in his hand. He was dressed like an English gentleman, which I learned later was his habit—tweed coat and pants, light vest, brown leather shoes. His blond-brown hair was perfectly combed; his square jaw anchored his handsome face; and his long, graceful hands looked like they had been washed, massaged, and laid out on a bed of pillows for display.

  Despite his appearance, however, Tyler was somewhat unusual for a Hollywood figure. For one thing, he was a middle-aged man in a town that celebrated youth. He’d appeared out of nowhere, acting—badly, I should say—in two films in 1916, and then directing three more before he was put under contract by Perennial. It was rumored that he’d come from the New York theater, and had performed with another theater company in London after a stint as an officer in the British Army.

  The thing that struck me that night at the Ship Café was that even sitting atop the ridiculously high chair, he looked perfectly at ease, as if he were in a garden drinking tea. I watched as a steady fiow of partygoers approached him to congratulate him on his film. He listened to them all graciously, and responded to each speaker as if he’d never before received such a compliment. These interactions were all monitored by a fidgety young man who stood several feet off to his left, quietly keeping his eyes on the proceedings.

  As far as I could tell, the director was not there with a woman. Several women had been associated with him in the fan magazines, but none with any evidence or consistency, and within the close-knit universe of Hollywood people, he was said to be a solitary figure. Through his short conversations with well-wishers that night, I never saw him look around to find a particular person in the crowd. Tyler’s reactions to all the people who spoke with him were polite and impersonal. He only changed expression when his boss, Gerard Normandy, approached with David Rosenberg in tow.

  Gerard Normandy was himself, of course, a figure who commanded attention. It is amazing to think now, from the vant
age point of old age, that this accomplished and remarkable man, this man who had already started his own company and was now head of production for a major studio, was all of thirty-three years old. He was not, however, someone who took advantage of his youth. He was terribly serious, always weighted down by the latest financing scheme or attempt to secure film rights, and even when he was out at festive places like the Ship, he looked like he was still at the office. But when Normandy appeared beside the director that night, even he seemed affected by Tyler’s charm. He brightened, a smile cracked the surface of his face, and soon the two men were engaged in a lively conversation. It was Normandy who’d made Tyler, really; he’d convinced the studio to sign him to a long-term contract on the strength of his first three films. The studio’s backers had readily agreed, for they liked the air of respectability Tyler brought to Perennial, at a time when city leaders were complaining more openly about the excess and frivolity of picture people.

  As the two men talked that evening, people watched them with interest. David Rosenberg stood quietly a little to the side of them, ready should Normandy need the name of a financial backer, or distribution figures, or the gossip on an actress the boss was considering for a part in an upcoming film. He also ran interference if some not-quite-important-enough person attempted to approach. Tyler looked over at his own man once or twice, as if to make sure that he was still there. I watched all of this too, as curious as anyone else, and after a few minutes, Gerard saw me looking and waved me over.

  I muttered apologies to my table and made my way through the crowd while people reached over to shake my hand and called out greetings. Finally I arrived at the other side of the floor.

  “Ah, Jun!” Gerard shouted above the music, smiling so widely that he looked almost sick. “I’m so glad to see you here. Have you met Ashley?”