THE MOVIE PEOPLE

Robert Bloch

Two thousand stars.

Two thousand stars, maybe more, set in the sidewalks along Hollywood Boulevard, each metal slab inscribed with the name of someone in the movie industry. They go way back, those names; from Broncho Billy Anderson to Adolph Zukor, everybody’s there.

Everybody but Jimmy Rogers.

You won’t find Jimmy’s name because he wasn’t a star, not even a bit-player—just an extra.

“But I deserve it,” he told me. “I’m entitled, if anybody is. Started out here in 1920 when I was just a punk kid. You look close, you’ll spot me in the crowd shots in The Mark of Zorro. Been in over 450 pictures since, and still going strong. Ain’t many left who can beat that record. You’d think it would entitle a fella to something.”

Maybe it did, but there was no star for Jimmy Rogers, and that bit about still going strong was just a crock. Nowadays Jimmy was lucky if he got a casting-call once or twice a year; there just isn’t any spot for an old-timer with a white muff except in a Western barroom scene.

Most of the time Jimmy just strolled the Boulevard; a tall, soldierly-erect incongruity in the crowd of tourists, fags, and freak-outs. His home address was on Las Palmas, somewhere south of Sunset. I’d never been there but I could guess what it was—one of those old frame bungalow-court sweatboxes put up about the time he crashed the movies and still standing somehow by the grace of God and the disgrace of the housing authorities. That’s the sort of place Jimmy stayed at, but he didn’t really live there.

Jimmy Rogers lived at the Silent Movie.

The Silent Movie is over on Fairfax, and it’s the only place in town where you can still go and see The Mark of Zorro. There’s always a Chaplin comedy, and usually Laurel and Hardy, along with a serial starring Pearl White, Elmo Lincoln, or Houdini. And the features are great—early Griffith and De Mille, Barrymore in Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Lon Chaney in The Hunchback of Notre Dame, Valentino in Blood and Sand, and a hundred more.

The bill changes every Wednesday, and every Wednesday night Jimmy Rogers was there, plunking down his ninety cents at the box-office to watch The Black Pirate or Son of the Sheik or Orphans of the Storm.

To live again.

Because Jimmy didn’t go there to see Doug and Mary or Rudy or Clara or Gloria or the Gish sisters. He went there to see himself, in the crowd shots.

At least that’s the way I figured it, the first time I met him. They were playing The Phantom of the Opera that night and afterwards I spent the intermission with a cigarette outside the theatre, studying the display of stills.

If you asked me under oath, I couldn’t tell you how our conversation started, but that’s where I first heard Jimmy’s routine about the 450 pictures and still going strong.

“Did you see me in there tonight?” he asked.

I stared at him and shook my head; even with the shabby hand-me-down suit and the white beard, Jimmy Rogers wasn’t the kind you’d spot in an audience.

“Guess it was too dark for me to notice,” I said.

“But there were torches,” Jimmy told me. “I carried one.”

Then I got the message. He was in the picture.

Jimmy smiled and shrugged. “Hell, I keep forgetting. You wouldn’t recognize me. We did The Phantom way back in ‘25. I looked so young they slapped a mustache on me in Make-up, and a black wig. Hard to spot me in the catacombs scenes—all long-shots. But there at the end, where Chaney is holding back the mob, I show up pretty good in the background, just left of Charley Zimmer. He’s the one shaking his fist. I’m waving my torch. Had a lot of trouble with that picture, but we did this shot in one take.”

In weeks to come I saw more of Jimmy Rogers. Sometimes he was up there on the screen, though truth to tell, I never did recognize him; he was a young man in those films of the Twenties, and his appearances were limited to a flickering flash, a blurred face glimpsed in a crowd.

But always Jimmy was in the audience, even though he hadn’t played in the picture. And one night I found out why.

Again it was intermission time and we were standing outside. By now Jimmy had gotten into the habit of talking to me and tonight we’d been seated together during the showing of The Covered Wagon.

We stood outside and Jimmy blinked at me. “Wasn’t she beautiful?” he asked. “They don’t look like that anymore.”

I nodded. “Lois Wilson? Very attractive.”

“I’m talking about June.”

I stared at Jimmy and then I realized he wasn’t blinking. He was crying.

“June Logan. My girl. This was her first bit, the Indian attack scene. Must have been seventeen—I didn’t know her then, it was two years later we met over at First National. But you must have noticed her. She was the one with the long blond curls.”

“Oh, that one.” I nodded again. “You’re right. She was lovely.”

And I was a liar, because I didn’t remember seeing her at all, but I wanted to make the old man feel good.

“Junie’s in a lot of the pictures they show here. And from ‘25 on, we played in a flock of ‘em together. For a while we talked about getting hitched, but she started working her way up, doing bits—maids and such—and I never broke out of extra work. Both of us had been in the business long enough to know it was no go, not when one of you stays small and the other is headed for a big career.”

Jimmy managed a grin as he wiped his eyes with something which might once have been a handkerchief. “You think I’m kidding, don’t you? About the career, I mean. But she was going great, she would have been playing second leads pretty soon.”

“What happened?” I asked.

The grin dissolved and the blinking returned. “Sound killed her.”

“She didn’t have a voice for talkies?”

Jimmy shook his head. “She had a great voice. I told you she was all set for second leads—by 1930 she’d been in a dozen talkies. Then sound killed her.”

I’d heard the expression a thousand times, but never like this. Because the way Jimmy told the story, that’s exactly what had happened. June Logan, his girl Junie, was on the set during the shooting of one of those early All Talking—All Singing—All Dancing epics. The director and camera crew, seeking to break away from the tyranny of the stationary microphone, rigged up one of the first travelling mikes on a boom. Such items weren’t standard equipment yet, and this was an experiment. Somehow, during a take, it broke loose and the boom crashed, crushing June Logan’s skull.

It never made the papers, not even the trades; the studio hushed it up and June Logan had a quiet funeral.

“Damn near forty years ago,” Jimmy said. “And here I am, crying like it was yesterday. But she was my girl—”

And that was the other reason why Jimmy Rogers went to the Silent Movie. To visit his girl.

“Don’t you see?” he told me. “She’s still alive up there on the screen, in all those pictures. Just the way she was when we were together. Five years we had, the best years for me.”

I could see that. The two of them in love, with each other and with the movies. Because in those days, people did love the movies. And to actually be in them, even in tiny roles, was the average person’s idea of seventh heaven.

Seventh Heaven, that’s another film we saw with June Logan playing a crowd scene. In the following weeks, with Jimmy’s help, I got so I could spot his girl. And he’d told the truth—she was a beauty. Once you noticed her, really saw her, you wouldn’t forget. Those blond ringlets, that smile, identified her immediately.

One Wednesday night Jimmy and I were sitting together watching The Birth of a Nation. During a street shot Jimmy nudged my shoulder. “Look, there’s June.”

I peered up at the screen, then shook my head. “I don’t see her.”

“Wait a second—there she is again. See, off to the left, behind Walthall’s shoulder?”

There was a blurred image and then the camera followed Henry B. Walthall as he moved away.

I glanced at Jimmy. He was rising from his seat.

“Where you going?”

He didn’t answer me, just marched outside.

When I followed I found him leaning against the wall under the marquee and breathing hard; his skin was the color of his whiskers.

“Junie,” he murmured. “I saw her—”

I took a deep breath. “Listen to me. You told me her first picture was The Covered Wagon. That was made in 1923. And Griffith shot The Birth of a Nation in 1914.”

Jimmy didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say. We both knew what we were going to do—march back into the theatre and see the second show.

When the scene screened again we were watching and waiting. I looked at the screen, then glanced at Jimmy.

“She’s gone,” he whispered. “She’s not in the picture.”

“She never was,” I told him. “You know that.”

“Yeah.” Jimmy got up and drifted out into the night, and I didn’t see him again until the following week.

That’s when they showed the short feature with Charles Ray—I’ve forgotten the title, but he played his usual country-boy role and there was a baseball game in the climax with Ray coming through to win.

The camera panned across the crowd sitting in the bleachers and I caught a momentary glimpse of a smiling girl with long blond curls.

“Did you see her?” Jimmy grabbed my arm.

“That girl—”

“It was Junie. She winked at me!”

This time I was the one who got up and walked out. He followed, and I was waiting in front of the theatre, right next to the display-poster.

“See for yourself.” I nodded at the poster. “This picture was made in 1917.” I forced a smile. “You forget, there were thousands of pretty blond extras in pictures, and most of them wore curls.”

He stood there shaking, not listening to me at all, and I put my hand on his shoulder. “Now look here—”

“I been looking here,” Jimmy said. “Week after week, year after year. And you might as well know the truth. This ain’t the first time it’s happened. Junie keeps turning up in picture after picture I know she never made. Not just the early ones, before her time, but later, during the Twenties, when I knew her, when I knew exactly what she was playing in. Sometimes it’s only a quick flash, but I see her—then she’s gone again. And the next running, she doesn’t come back.

“It got so that for a while I was almost afraid to go see a show—figured I was cracking up. But now you’ve seen her too—”

I shook my head slowly. “Sorry, Jimmy. I never said that.” I glanced at him, then gestured towards my car at the curb. “You look tired. Come on, I’ll drive you home.”

He looked worse than tired; he looked lost and lonely and infinitely old. But there was a stubborn glint in his eyes, and he stood his ground.

“No, thanks. I’m gonna stick around for the second show.”

As I slid behind the wheel I saw him turn and move into the theatre, into the place where the present becomes the past and the past becomes the present. Up above in the booth they call it a projection-machine, but it’s really a time-machine; it can take you back, play tricks with your imagination and your memory. A girl dead forty years comes alive again, and an old man relives his vanished youth—

But I belonged in the real world, and that’s where I stayed. I didn’t go to the Silent Movie the next week or the week following.

And the next time I saw Jimmy was almost a month later, on the set.

They were shooting a Western, one of my scripts, and the director wanted some additional dialogue to stretch a sequence. So they called me in, and I drove all the way out to location, at the ranch.

Most of the studios have a ranch spread for Western action sequences, and this was one of the oldest; it had been in use since the silent days. What fascinated me was the wooden fort where they were doing the crowd scene—I could swear I remembered it from one of the first Tim McCoy pictures. So after I huddled with the director and scribbled a few extra lines for the principals, I began nosing around behind the fort, just out of curiosity, while they set up for the new shots.

Out front was the usual organized confusion; cast and crew milling around the trailers, extras sprawled on the grass drinking coffee. But here in the back I was all alone, prowling around in musty, log-lined rooms built for use in forgotten features. Hoot Gibson had stood at this bar, and Jack Hoxie had swung from this dancehall chandelier. Here was a dust-covered table where Fred Thomson sat, and around the corner, in the cut-away bunkhouse—

Around the corner, in the cut-away bunkhouse, Jimmy Rogers sat on the edge of a mildewed mattress and stared up at me, startled, as I moved forward.

“You—?”

Quickly I explained my presence. There was no need for him to explain his; casting had called and given him a day’s work here in the crowd shots.

“They been stalling all day, and it’s hot out there. I figured maybe I could sneak back here and catch me a little nap in the shade.”

“How’d you know where to go?” I asked. “Ever been here before?”

“Sure. Forty years ago in this very bunkhouse. Junie and I, we used to come here during lunch break and—”

He stopped.

“What’s wrong?”

Something was wrong. On the pan make-up face of it, Jimmy Rogers was the perfect picture of the grizzled Western old-timer; buckskin britches, fringed shirt, white whiskers and all. But under the make-up was pallor, and the hands holding the envelope were trembling.

The envelope—

He held it out to me. “Here. Mebbe you better read this.”

The envelope was unsealed, unstamped, unaddressed. It contained four folded pages covered with fine handwriting. I removed them slowly. Jimmy stared at me.

“Found it lying here on the mattress when I came in,” he murmured. “Just waiting for me.”

“But what is it? Where’d it come from?”

“Read it and see.”

As I started to unfold the pages the whistle blew. We both knew the signal; the scene was set up, they were ready to roll, principals and extras were wanted out there before the cameras.

Jimmy Rogers stood up and moved off, a tired old man shuffling out into the hot sun. I waved at him, then sat down on the mouldering mattress and opened the letter. The handwriting was faded, and there was a thin film of dust on the pages. But I could still read it, every word…

Darling:

I’ve been trying to reach you so long and in so many ways. Of course I’ve seen you, but it’s so dark out there I can’t always be sure, and then too you’ve changed a lot through the years.

But I do see you, quite often, even though it’s only for a moment. And I hope you’ve seen me, because I always try to wink or make some kind of motion to attract your attention.

The only thing is, I can’t do too much or show myself too long or it would make trouble. That’s the big secret—keeping in the background, so the others won’t notice me. It wouldn’t do to frighten anybody, or even to get anyone wondering why there are more people in the background of a shot than there should be.

That’s something for you to remember, darling, just in case. You’re always safe, as long as you stay clear of close-ups. Costume pictures are the best—about all you have to do is wave your arms once in a while and shout, “On to the Bastille,” or something like that. It really doesn’t matter except to lip-readers, because it’s silent, of course.

Oh, there’s a lot to watch out for. Being a dress extra has its points, but not in ballroom sequences—too much dancing. That goes for parties, too, particularly in a De Mille production where they’re “making whoopee” or one of Von Stroheim’s orgies. Besides, Von Stroheim’s scenes are always cut.

It doesn’t hurt to be cut, don’t misunderstand about that. It’s no different than an ordinary fade-out at the end of a scene, and then you’re free to go into another picture. Anything that was ever made, as long as there’s still a print available for running somewhere. It’s like falling asleep and then having one dream after another. The dreams are the scenes, of course, but while the scenes are playing, they’re real.

I’m not the only one, either. There’s no telling how many others do the same thing; maybe hundreds for all I know, but I’ve recognized a few I’m sure of and I think some of them have recognized me. We never let on to each other that we know, because it wouldn’t do to make anybody suspicious.

Sometimes I think that if we could talk it over, we might come up with a better understanding of just how it happens, and why. But the point is, you can’t talk, everything is silent; all you do is move your lips and if you tried to communicate such a difficult thing in pantomime you’d surely attract attention.

I guess the closest I can come to explaining it is to say it’s like reincarnation—you can play a thousand roles, take or reject any part you want, as long as you don’t make yourself conspicuous or do something that would change the plot.

Naturally you get used to certain things. The silence, of course. And if you’re in a bad print there’s flickering; sometimes even the air seems grainy, and for a few frames you may be faded or out of focus.

Which reminds me—another thing to stay away from, the slapstick comedies. Sennett’s early stuff is the worst, but Larry Semon and some of the others are just as bad; all that speeded-up camera action makes you dizzy.

Once you can learn to adjust, it’s all right, even when you’re looking off the screen into the audience. At first the darkness is a little frightening—you have to remind yourself it’s only a theatre and there are just people out there, ordinary people watching a show. They don’t know you can see them. They don’t know that as long as your scene runs you’re just as real as they are, only in a different way. You walk, run, smile, frown, drink, eat—

That’s another thing to remember, about the eating. Stay out of those Poverty Row quickies where everything is cheap and faked. Go where there’s real set-dressing, big productions with banquet scenes and real food. If you work fast you can grab enough in a few minutes, while you’re off-camera, to last you.

The big rule is, always be careful. Don’t get caught. There’s so little time, and you seldom get an opportunity to do anything on your own, even in a long sequence. It’s taken me forever to get this chance to write you—I’ve planned it for so long, my darling, but it just wasn’t possible until now.

This scene is playing outside the fort, but there’s quite a large crowd of settlers and wagon-train people, and I had a chance to slip away inside here to the rooms in back—they’re on-camera in the background all during the action. I found this stationery and a pen, and I’m scribbling just as fast as I can. Hope you can read it. That is, if you ever get the the chance!

Naturally, I can’t mail it—but I have a funny hunch. You see, I noticed that standing set back here, the bunkhouse, where you and I used to come in the old days. I’m going to leave this letter on the mattress, and pray.

Yes, darling, I pray. Someone or something knows about us, and about how we feel. How we felt about being in the movies. That’s why I’m here, I’m sure of that; because I’ve always loved pictures so. Someone who knows that must also know how I loved you. And still do.

I think there must be many heavens and many hells, each of us making his own, and—

The letter broke off there.

No signature, but of course I didn’t need one. And it wouldn’t have proved anything. A lonely old man, nursing his love for forty years, keeping her alive inside himself somewhere until she broke out in the form of a visual hallucination up there on the screen—such a man could conceivably go all the way into a schizoid split, even to the point where he could imitate a woman’s handwriting as he set down the rationalization of his obsession.

I started to fold the letter, then dropped it on the mattress as the shrill scream of an ambulance-siren startled me into sudden movement

Even as I ran out the doorway I seemed to know what I’d find; the crowd huddling around the figure sprawled in the dust under the hot sun. Old men tire easily in such heat, and once the heart goes—

Jimmy Rogers looked very much as though he were smiling in his sleep as they lifted him into the ambulance. And I was glad of that; at least he’d died with his illusions intact.

“Just keeled over during the scene—one minute he was standing there, and the next—”

They were still chattering and gabbing when I walked away, walked back behind the fort and into the bunkhouse.

The letter was gone.

I’d dropped it on the mattress, and it was gone. That’s all I can say about it. Maybe somebody else happened by while I was out front, watching them take Jimmy away. Maybe a gust of wind carried it through the doorway, blew it across the desert in a hot Santa Ana gust. Maybe there was no letter. You can take your choice—all I can do is state the facts.

And there aren’t very many more facts to state.

I didn’t go to Jimmy Rogers’ funeral, if indeed he had one. I don’t even know where he was buried; probably the Motion Picture Fund took care of him. Whatever those facts may be, they aren’t important.

For a few days I wasn’t too interested in facts. I was trying to answer a few abstract questions about metaphysics—reincarnation, heaven and hell, the difference between real life and reel life. I kept thinking about those images you see up there on the screen in those old movies; images of actual people indulging in make-believe. But even after they die, the make-believe goes on, and that’s a form of reality too. I mean, where’s the border-line? And if there is a border-line—is it possible to cross over? Life’s but a walking shadow—

Shakespeare said that, but I wasn’t sure what he meant.

I’m still not sure, but there’s just one more fact I must state.

The other night, for the first time in all the months since Jimmy Rogers died, I went back to the Silent Movie.

They were playing Intolerance, one of Griffith’s greatest. Way back in 1916 he built the biggest set ever shown on the screen—the huge temple in the Babylonian sequence.

One shot never fails to impress me, and it did so now; a wide angle on the towering temple, with thousands of people moving antlike amidst the gigantic carvings and colossal statues. In the distance, beyond the steps guarded by rows of stone elephants, looms a mighty wall, its top covered with tiny figures. You really have to look closely to make them out. But I did look closely, and this time I can swear to what I saw.

One of the extras, way up there on the wall in the background, was a smiling girl with long blond curls. And standing right beside her, one arm around her shoulder, was a tall old man with white whiskers. I wouldn’t have noticed either of them, except for one thing.

They were waving at me…