Heroine

By Howard Birnstihl

Fictional account of the silent film pioneers in Australia, fighting the odds and taking their movies to the outback.

• Language: English
• Publisher: SPIKEBACK BOOKS
• Release date: Dec 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9780648133834

Howard Birnstihl

Howard Birnstihl, as an art teacher was one of the pioneers of photography and film studies in Australian high schools.  Becoming a fulltime photographer he spent the 70’s and 80’s specializing in candid sociological studies, winning many awards, his camera always at the ready.  With over a million pics on file, he and his wife Gil ran a successful photo library supplying illustration to virtually every publisher in the country.   Always a lover of Australian flora and fauna, he later specialized in this area, concentrating on the smaller end of the scale with detailed macro studies.  After honing these close-up skills he became one of the country’s leading jewellery photographers, and as something of a Renaissance man, has lately turned his hand to writing .  Howard Birnstihl, as an art teacher was one of the pioneers of photography and film studies in Australian high schools.  Becoming a fulltime photographer he spent the 70’s and 80’s specializing in candid sociological studies, winning many awards, his camera always at the ready.  With over a million pics on file, he and his wife Gil ran a successful photo library supplying illustration to virtually every publisher in the country.   Always a lover of Australian flora and fauna, he later specialized in this area, concentrating on the smaller end of the scale with detailed macro studies.  After honing these close-up skills he became one of the country’s leading jewellery photographers, and as something of a Renaissance man, has lately turned his hand to writing . 

Book preview

1

I can still remember coming home from school one cold drizzly day, Mum, flour to her elbows, saying we were at war.  Not even sure I knew what a war was, not really.  I mean, we studied them... well not so much the actual wars, more the dates really.  All those nights at the kitchen table  poring over those infuriating collumns of what was it?  Battle of Hastings 1066, everybody remembers that one.  The American Civil War, 1861 to 1866, or there abouts, stuck in the mind as the dates overlapped with my favourite bushranger, Ben Hall, when he was leading old Pottinger and his boys in blue a merry dance around the New South Wales  bush.  There was the more recent stouch, the Boer War of course, somewhere round when I was born.  Oh, and the French Revolution... Well, there you see, is a revolution a war? 

Why they were all so upset about it had me scratching the old bonce.  Where the heck is Europe anyway?  A zillion miles away.  I don’t mean upset in any demonstrative way, you know what Dad’s like, wouldn’t say boo to a goose.  Just sucked his teeth and made his little throat growls, enough said.  Mum was pale, except for little hot spots on her cheeks, last seen when we had that barney when the Mackerals over us not tying up our dog with theirs on heat.  Screwloose went crazy, smashed clear through their back wire door and we got the blame.  Haven’t spoken a word since.  Guess that’s a war too - a sort of silent ongoing one. 

Teddy was the one asking all the questions.  He’d never opened a newspaper in his life, but as Dad read every line ever printed it didn’t matter.  Don’t quote me, it’s all so bloody complicated, but Dad reckons some archduke and his missus got themselves assassinated in somewhere or other and it all hit the fan.  Serbia, I think he said, that sound right?  Anyway, the Germans declared war on this Serbian mob, and because they were pals with Russia, had a go at them as well.  As France was in the way, they copped it, and Britain never afraid to punch above their weight joined in too.  Wouldn’t you know it, Japan then gets cocky, sees Germany’s got too much on its plate to worry about its holdings in China, and in she goes to nick them.  Naturally, with Britain in, it’s all in, meaning us.  What a schomozzle.

Thought Teddy was going to shoot off there and then, spend the night down on the recruiting office steps.  Never moved that quick on the footy field – didn’t call him Trudger for nothing.  Centre half forward he certainly was, like some poo-covered statue rarely shifted more than two yards in any direction from the first bounce to the final siren.  Kept a bucket of sand on the boundary to fill in his little quagmire after each quarter.  When he did move it was like an old beer wagon, mighty slow but get in his way at your peril.  Miss the big fella though, never writes much.  Somewhere in Egypt I think.

Reminds me of the next time Mum got those hot spots on her cheeks.  Seem to remember Dad actually said a few words too.  But it was my money.  All right, so there was a war on and the drought was a killer.  Uncle Errol up in the Mallee was burning huge piles of dead sheep, not a blade of grass to be seen, their dirt blowing all over New Zealand.  Worst since the bad one at the turn of the century.  Mum leans over the stove and weeps.  Dad throws his paper in the corner and goes out the back to chop the wood he’s already chopped - enough kindling now to last six winters.  So it’s me getting it in the neck for spending my five pounds the way I want too.  Thought they reckoned this war was all about freedom.  What about mine?

It was a good job actually, although I had to share the proceeds with Em as it was her bike.  The huge basket on the front was perfect.  Old Kamph gave me a ha’penny per delivery and my aim was to make five quid.  I think I worked that out to be two thousand four hundred deliveries.  But with Em’s cut it made it an even three thou.  Lot of sore bums in that.  Think I even worked out how many times I had to turn the peddles.  It was a lot. 

Talking of old Kamph, he and his family had escaped the internment camps in which so many other German families had been deposited.  I think Dad might have been the main instigator here.  Nothing official was ever declared, no epistle bearing intimidating letterhead or flourishing signature.  Dad and a few of the neighbours gathered at the gate when the two officials arrived to interview the Kamphs, telling the two shiny faced coots in their dark blue suits in no uncertain terms to keep their hands off.  Bugger off!  These were good people.  End of story.

The fact the Kamphs ran the best grocery store in the area, and their son a local sports champion, you’d think would have sufficed.  Interviewing the husband would have sealed the deal.  The gentlest soul on the planet, he was loved by one and all.  To prove a point Mum intervened at the appropriate moment, rolling pin in hand, saying she needed Mrs Kamph’s help with some un-named pressing issue.  We all reckoned there was little need for the AIF with Mum around.  Best kept away from vulnerable government officials that one, best for everyone’s sake.

My weekend job was with old Doc Henry the local vet.  About seventy, looking a hundred and seventy to me, specs as thick as the bottom of Mum’s jam jars, leather apron hidden beneath years of blood and grime, and like old man Kamph, as gentle a human being as God ever made.  I’d never seen anyone, even Em, who could turn a frightened raging beast into a purring cuddly pet within a few strokes of his hand.  One of those people who regarded every living creature with equal awe, be it a tiny hairy caterpillar crossing his path or grand glossy stallion challenging the wind in a lush green pasture, moth-eaten moggy or our greedy arrogant local mayor, each had its own idiosyncrasies, each had his role.  It was as if God had produced this array of life for him to study and study he did, his observations muttered to me as he operated on some snooty lady’s poodle, about both animal and owner, so accurate, so precise, I could only wonder at.  I’d seen both, and drawn my own clumsy conclusions, having limited my observations to the outside.  I thought of Conon Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes.  Was this man a descendant?  Be it a cute timid kitten or the milkman’s plodding old mare, he would look at it, shake his head smiling and observe, ‘think I see the problem, but ain’t she a beauty boy?  Perfection itself’.  He would often go on to explain how the real problem was with the owner, but this was never done with any malice, any incrimination.

I was not paid for my work clutching terrified maimed animals, hosing down the grime and gore from his operating table or labelling and packaging up his home-made remedies.  He was teaching me about life he said, and he was.  My weekends were a delight like no teacher in a stuffy classroom could possibly imagine, and I wanted to be there.

Old Travers didn’t pay me for working in the cinema either as he reckoned all those free flicks should be enough for any kid.  He was right.  Don’t tell him, but I would’ve paid him all my grocery delivery fees to have that job.  There were so many highlights, The Ned Kelly Story of course, the first full length feature anywhere in the world and after showing for seven weeks in Melbourne became famous in New Zealand and England.  That really had the town buzzing, even during its many repeat showings.  They say EJ Carroll made a fortune touring it round Queensland.

There’s that new director too, Raymond Longford, his stuff was so professional, easily as good as anything the Yanks were producing.  The Fatal Wedding and The Silence of Dean Maitland, even Dad was impressed.  The colour travelogues were great too, using a process known as Kinemacolour, but colour’ll never take off - too expensive.  I guess if I had to name my favourite, besides all the Bushranger flicks of course, it would be Frank Hurley’s doco on Mawson’s trip to the Antarctic.  No trickery there, real life drama, fighting blizzards, madness brought on by hunger, falling down crevasses, many of the team dying and the heartbreak of missing rescue by a few hours to spend further months alone at the end of the earth. Gee, were those fellas courageous or what? 

Alone in the claustrophobic projection room - freezing in winter, the brittle film cutting my fingers to ribbons; stifling in summer, the stench making my nose burn and my head throb, the danger of fire ever present, I loved every second of it.  And my arm - if you think cranking a movie projector at a constant speed for hours on end is easy, try it.  I became quite skilled at swapping arms without any apparent change in rhythm, although I did work out those times which were the least obvious to my critics out there in the dark.  Nobody’s going to complain if a love scene takes a little bit longer, or if a wild car chase is just a tad more hectic than planned.  Keystone Cops at breakneck speed, what a hoot. 

My thoughts went out to people like brother Stan who’d preceded me here at the Picture Palace.  In those pre-electric globe days he had not only to crank the film through but constantly tend to the various knobs controlling the flame onto the lime as well as those controlling the gas flow.  There were things such as the wash bottle to purify the oxygen, the saturator filled with cotton waste or rags as well as a mini gasometer to pressurise the gas - all cumbersome and dangerous.  Later when the more scientific arc lighting took over the space between the rods had to be constantly corrected as the rods burnt away.  With all that naked flame and nitrate film being so inflammable they were quite literally risking their lives, many in fact ending those lives in their beloved projection rooms.  There were small fires galore but the killer blaze in Ireland, most natable, had everyone thinking twice after that.  With too much time to think standing in those queues waiting to buy their ticket, cinema going for the faint hearted was a bitter sweet experience.

My only real frustration was the often late arrival of our order.  Thankfully mistakes were rare but having to ride, or sometimes walk back to the station for a second trip was not only tiring, it left me less time to do my checking.  This always had me gnawing the nails, angry crowds fuming over the wrong film or having to sit through multiple film breaks never went down well, particularly on Saturday arvo when the ferrels were in, missiles ready in bulging pockets.

I think it was the surreal atmosphere which grabbed me most.  A low general hubbub of expectation rumbling through the building until the long anticipated lights faded to black.  Aladdin’s cave old T called it and he was right.  To me, I was giant puppet master in control of my audience.  Haloed silhouettes, each head still, except for those munching on biscuits or sandwiches brought from home, until I pulled one of my strings.  The funny string saw them move as one, jerked into action, rocking with laughter, the sounds ricocheting from wall to wall.  Backlit corks bobbing on a choppy sea.  The sad string saw couples merge ever so slightly, their chewing and whispering temporarily ceased, the only sound the muffled tip tip tip of my handle.  A favourite of course was the terror string, the reactions more extreme and less predictable.  I’d had patrons leap from their seats and on one memorable occasion, flopped poor old Mrs Murphy unconscious into the aisle.  The clear public view of her patched knickers no doubt haunting her ever after.  But my secret delight - watching to see how Jenny Thompson would react to my will... or, just watching her, period.

Eighteen months it took to earn my fiver.  Thinking back on it I can’t work out how I didn’t develop from that scrawny kid into someone like Eddy Mathews.  He was built like a country dunny, and from the day he was born.  I peddled more miles than you could poke a stick at and wound enough film to reach the moon and there wasn’t a muscle to be seen.  Arms like broomsticks.  I desperately wanted to ask Jenny Thomson out, and with money in my kick, I reckoned I had a chance.  If only I could put on some weight.  I prayed my lot in life was not to be the Effete Muse as Old Travers called me.  I only ever got a translation from my brother Harry, so I’m assuming it meant Bony Dreamer.  I’m hoping the bit about a carrot up the bum was a joke. 

I should have twigged earlier there was an extra string to my bow, invisible till the thought struck.  I had control of the most magnetic attraction in town, The Movie Palace.  Bit high filutin’ for an old corrugated iron shed, but Old Travers had the huge sign professionally painted and brother Teddy rigged up a gizmo which had twelve flashing lights appearing to travel around it.  Quite a feat in those days.  Folks used to come to watch the sign even if they weren’t interested in buying a ticket for the show.

Jenny only appeared on the odd Friday night, sitting primly in white gloves  as any daughter of a decent family would, her brothers and parents scrubbed to shiny perfection, the father actually seen to smile on rare occasions.  Sometimes arriving with the gang at the matinee, a touch more animated, she was still on the whole one of the more sedate, but boy was she a humdinger.  I’d have to wait till Old T went into the city of course.  He often did these days now he felt I was up to holding the fort.  He and his wife shared the pre-session ticket sales and a stall where they sometimes sold her home-made toffee apples, the latter requiring only one of them in attendance at interval.  If I got myself organized, and had the main reels ready before interval, I could pop out and mingle.  Casually bumping into Jenny, I could suggest she might like to watch the show from the comfort of my projection room, another feature knocked up by Teddy.  Not quite the spacious suite Mr T had envisaged, constructed from a few scanty materials scrounged from some demolition site, I wouldn’t need an excuse to stay close.  The idea had me tingling.

Three weeks passed before the old sod made the trip, his wife in her usual grump on such occasions.  (I learned later, he was actually off in the other direction to Caulfield Race Track, perhaps the Missus not as naïve as he thought).  Peering out into the gloom I was in luck, Jenny on her chair in the third row looking ravishing, her pretty pink gingham dress with the white collar my favourite.  She was seated next to Eddy Mathews which made my blood boil, but we’d see if muscles held more sway than the thrill of being in the heart of movie operations.

Six shorts in the first half had me in a sweat changing reels and ensuring everything went back into the correct cases.  Nobody likes Dracular appearing on screen when they were expecting The Kiss.  Carefully arranging the cases so there was just enough room for Jenny and me to huddle together, leaving sufficient space to wind the handle, I went out amongst the jostling crowd to find my love.  Mrs Travers was shouting, just as she always did, for everyone to be quiet and form two queues, this season’s apples a bumper crop.  No one paid the slightest attention.  Jenny stood by Eddy, her beautifully slim shoulders about half the width of his.  I brushed her arm, she made no response.  Tapping her nervously on the shoulder, I whispered she might like to accompany me in the projection booth.  She didn’t hear, but Eddy, whose ears must have muscles like those in his arms, did.  Dropping any thought of grabbing the largest apple, he grabbed Jenny and me by the arm and frog-marched us to the booth.  What followed was seventy gruelling minutes of Raymond Longford’s latest release, A Maori Maid’s Love in the jerkiest presentation ever experienced by man or beast.  (Mrs McSmythe-Owen always accompanied by her salt and pepper poodle, usually barking in the most inopportune moments).  Eddy went on to even greater admiration of his peers, having sat in the throne room of the town’s holy of holies.  Jenny, squashed between the film cases and the wall, so keen was Eddy to get an eyeful, my only consolation her declaration she would never speak to him again. 

We were all thankful Teddy was sent to Egypt, supposedly fighting the Turks.  They’d been delayed in getting there because of German ships in the Atlantic, then spent months training and playing footy in the sun.  It all seemed like a bit of a doddle.  Elsewhere, as on the western front, it was a different matter.  The numbers of casualties were almost beyond our comprehension, three boys from neighbouring streets killed within days of each other.  Ted went on to a place called Gallipoli, which no one could pronounce, that campaign something of an enigma.  We knew from the scant newspaper reports it was a fierce battle, and reading between the lines, something of a stalemate.  This was hardly surprising, as Dad was fond of saying, modern warfare was all about defence.  With the emphasis on artillery, huge numbers of men were bogged down in trenches, often unable to move for months at a time.  Perhaps a natural pessimist, he’d scoffed at the original idea of it all being over by Christmas.  Others were now seeing it as he did.  Now at the western front, Teddy’s letters, as succinct as they were, gave a clear impression of a miserable existence.  Mud, blood and constant shelling somehow lingering in our minds.  His only request, send more mittens.

But I was telling you of that fiver misspent.  Becoming besotted with the movies, the glamour of plucky starlets like Mary Pickford and the more delicate Lillian Gish, the rugged heroism of William S Hart and Tom Mix, not to mention the hilarity of Charlie Chaplin and Ben Turpin, my head was full of it.  My second oldest brother, Stanley, who’d preceded me as the projectionist at The Palace, was also a film freak.  He had the good fortune to be there when Australia was the leading movie maker in the world.  That must have been quite a buzz.  Sharing a bedroom, we prattled on until all hours telling and retelling the tales we’d read in the film magazines.  I was interested in ‘the movies’, it didn’t matter where they were made. Stanley was fixated on Hollywood, scoffing at the British and Australian product for their lack of sophistication, particularly in the lighting.  I couldn’t tell the difference.  He reckoned Japanese movies were unwatchable with most of the action, or lack of it, taking place in a static stage-like atmosphere without any appreciation of what movies could achieve. 

‘Have you seen what they do when someone dies?’ he’d say, thrusting his feet up toward the ceiling and guffawing like Falstaff after a hard night.  ‘They fling themselves backwards offstage.  It’s bloody hilarious.  Hope they give em something soft to land on.’

He gave the French credit for their originality and had heard the Italians were quite innovative as well. As for the Russians, their industry was full of geniuses restricted by their politics, but I had to take his word for that. 

But that was years ago, now it was 1916 and Stanley had...what should I say?  Dad would say ‘scuttled off’, Mum would say emigrated and Teddy, well, I’ll leave out the adjectives and let’s just say ‘ratted’ off to America.  A big wheel in his beloved Hollywood apparently, he wrote once a month, telling of the latest fashions in the movie industry, and his part in it, although the latter was usually pretty vague.  I suppose being away from home one is forced to be little more humble.  Vague or not, we devoured any details as we gathered around the kitchen table after tea each time Mother received a letter with a wonderful American stamp, proudly and somewhat hesitantly handed over by an envious Mr Sykes.  Not for nothing did our postie know all the goings on of the district, ever lingering in the hope of catching at least the opening words of any epistle he’d delivered.  Mum, not one to gossip, rarely offered him the opportunity, often mumbling a cryptic comment simply to both whet and deny his appetite.  To me, and Mum I was sure, a letter from Stanley was gold.  Em, who I sometimes saw as a different breed, seemed to have a different set of priorities completely.  Eager yes, but more for the stamp, any of which was veraciously snaffled for her album as soon as the letter was opened.

Without the garallous Stan to natter with, I found myself staying behind in that shadow-ridden projection booth to run and re-run the week’s films.  Funny the way it happens, but I learnt more from what he’d told me now he wasn’t there.  The lighting for instance, I could see exactly what he meant.  The Yanks always backlit their actors so the halo on their shoulders and hair helped separate them from the background.  Their outdoor shots were better lit too, no doubt due to their ability to afford the generating equipment and its transport.  Lower budgets, and perhaps a lack of imagination saw the Poms and Aussies front light only, the actors often failing to stand out as they should.  As far as outside shots were concerned, you could forget about details in the shadows for a start – might as well all be aboes, as Stan would have said. 

He’d rambled on about eyelines too, of which I hadn’t a clue.  Now it jumped out at me, although I noticed it was only a problem with the older movies.  I guess it’s like learning any language, there are sounds and nuances which if learned, one speaks like a native, without an accent.  In movies, if you don’t learn to express yourself, the visual language doesn’t quite work.  Eye lines are a good example.  Cutting from one view to another, if the camera points in a direction different from what you would expect in real life, it all jerks and appears unco-ordinated.  You see the hero on the right of the screen facing three quarters left shooting at the villain and then cut to the reaction shot. If the villain is not photographed toward the left of screen facing the way you logically expect, it doesn’t work.  If the hero then falls down a cliff in longshot (a stuntman of course), the close-up of the real hero as he gets up rubbing his sore spots (his hat still in place, naturally), he has to be facing the same way as when he fell.  It all seems too simple, but unless it’s thought out, and someone actually makes the decision, you have a dud movie on your hands.  And this brings me to my pet subject, editing.

Stanley raved on for hours about Eisenstein’s experiments, showing a close-up of a man looking pleased, inserting a shot and then cutting back to the man.  If the inserted shot is of a smiling baby, the whole scene becomes one of a kind family man.  If the inserted image is that of a sexy girl, he’s seen as a dirty old man.  Now as I watched the thousands of feet of celluloid grinding through the projector my mind filled with the possibilities of the editing process.  Stan told me of the first accidental disappearance trick where the camera was mistakenly switched off and on again a few seconds later.  The result of course was the person walking into the shot, hey presto,  suddenly disappears.  Rather old hat now, as most of the films we watched had been broken and re-spliced dozens of times, treating us to exactly that same phenomenon every week, albeit unintentionally. 

I’m proud to say my splicing technique was nigh on perfect, more than I can say for many other projectionists, considering the state of some of the footage we received.  Part of my job was to run each film through on the winder before the session to check for breaks and poor splices, repairing any weak spots.  I have to say most films left The Palace in better nick than we’d received them.

We also had an old still projector we used for showing advertising slides, and when the film broke, as it would three or four times a session, we’d put on a slide asking for patron’s patience.  Boos, although usually without malice, were obligatory, particularly if the slide lingered too long, engulfed in that gruesome creeping brown sludge as it disintegrated in the heat.  Dilligent to a point, I’ll admit when there were two breaks within a foot or so I often left the remnant out, preferring to have only one unsightly jerk and flash on the screen rather than two in quick succession.  As only a second or so of action was lost few complaints were ever made. 

Sitting alone in the flickering light, the pungent smell of hot celluloid and splicing cement spicing my senses, I began to wonder what a montage of all those broken bits of film would look like.  It could be hilarious.  I scrounged around on the floor and collected a few scraps among peanut shells, sticky lolly wrappers and other debris I’d promised to sweep up in order to prevent the place becoming a fire hazard.  There were more in the bin in the corner and I remembered seeing some out by the incinerator.  Collecting those and wiping them down I began to cut and scrape the edges to remove the emulsion, cementing them into one long strip, a few feet of plain stock as header and footer.  When I had about twenty feet I eagerly wound it onto a reel and turned on the machine.  Winding the handle slowly to better see the results, I watched as one image cheekily replaced another.  A horse feeding from a nose bag became a silhouette of a tree, a man smiling, an old shed in the bush, a baby crying, and so it went.  I was making my own crazy movie, me a movie-maker!  I wondered what Jenny would think.

At last, a reason for passing through that pristine white gate, treading the neat path between carefully manicured lawns and knocking on that ominous door, the brass plate announcing the surgery of A. E. Thompson MD.  Mrs Thompson answered the door with one of her smiles.  She had three kinds.  One for friends and neighbours and therefore warm and welcoming; one for patients, business-like and slightly patronising, and the one I got.  The mouth, in the shape of a smile, the eyebrows merging into a double vertical groove in her forehead suggested a degree of what?  Doubt, uncertainty, annoyance?  Yes, Jenny was in...  Who was it wanting to see her? 

Perhaps I should have read the signs.  We’d been going to Doc Thompson all our lives, from childbirth, chundering, chilblains to chucking it in, as dad would say.  Much older than his wife, his severity of nature could be put down to emanating from another era.  Hers, perhaps a trick of fate?  I continued to wait, the pimple on my chin I was picking at becoming quite sore.  After many agonizing minutes Jenny came to the door and as I stammered my reason for invading her privacy she finally gave her little blinking smile and agreed to come and see my movie.  Sceptical, I knew she’d be impressed with the actual unveiling.  Refusing my offer of accompanying her, she stated matter of factly she could manage on her own thankyou.  Even more dubious at finding we were the sole occupants of The Palace, I softened the blow by assuring her I would be in the projection booth, emphasising the purity of my intentions by offering her a distant front row seat.  Hurrying back to the booth, I turned on the projector.  Having meticulously pre-focussed she would be hit with the final product of my labours in perfect clarity.  I watched for her reaction, she sat stock still – mesmerised.  I clenched my fists and silently thanked God.  I called through the vent that I’d show it again.  I ran it through another four times, leaving the projector running to provide lighting in the cinema area as I breathlessly joined her.  Too excited to sit, I took her by the shoulders and asked:

‘What do you think?’

I looked at that serene face staring back at me, the harsh projected light unfairly cruel on her usually soft gentle features, but to me she was still a picture of beauty. 

‘Well?’ I repeated, grinning like an idiot.

‘You mean... that was it?’

We walked home in stony silence, each attempt on my part to start a conversation dying as soon as the words formed in my mind.  Up till now, Jenny probably thought of me as an unimpressive spindly immature kid.  From her reticence, and her apparent state of shock, I could imagine any number of additions to that list, and none of them in any way complimentary.

By the time I got to sleep that night I’d turned the pillow a number of times in order to find a dry spot to lay my head.  I tried to explain to myself what had happened, but I couldn’t fathom it.  Jenny certainly went to the flix often enough, surely she was a fan.  She’d just witnessed an experimental masterpiece, and as a doctor’s daughter, surely she was intelligent enough to appreciate it.  Maybe that was it, she was dumb, and just didn’t show it.  Twice I thought I had her won over, twice increasing the barrier between us.  Maybe I just didn’t understand women, like Teddy, he was always saying the same thing back before he went off to the war.  If he didn’t understand them, what hope did I have?

There was one woman who would understand, but Mum hated dark spaces and I couldn’t picture her climbing up those rickety steps into the projection booth.  Besides, her feet were playing up and I didn’t think she’d take too kindly to me dinking her on the bike.  Another reason for eliminating her was the fact she was just too accommodating.  She would say she loved it no matter what.  ‘That’s nice dear,’ her answer to most things.

Then I thought of Stanley.  Admitting defeat would be a hard pill to swallow, particularly as he had no trouble with women.  That’s not exactly true, he did have lots of trouble, particularly with the Henderson twins, getting them both in the family way.  Now that I think of it, could that be the reason for the doctor’s wife giving me such a cool reception, hubby having to perform the ops?  Perhaps it explains too the way Dad showed such little emotion seeing him off at the docks.  But that’s all beside the point, Stanley would not only sympathise with a fellow traveller, he might have some advice.  I wrote that same night.  A few weeks later, his letter arrived.

Dear Squirt,

Not quite in there yet mate?  Stick at it, they always give over in the end.  Not sure what you’re on about with your flick.  You don’t mention any theme, subject, storyline, characters, setting, plot, tension points, titles.  In fact it sounds like you just edited bits together holus bolus.  Only kidding.  Know you’re more sensible than that.  Why don’t you send it over and I’ll take a gander.  Might even show it to the big boys here.  Could be a career in the making.  I’m always reminding the locals here it was the flick of our boy Griffo (the greatest boxer ever in my opinion) that was the first movie ever to be shown to a paying audience.  We’re history makers kid, no reason why you can’t continue the fashion!

Interesting too, pics here beat ours hands down of course, but you know, I reckon our acting is far superior.  Yanks still love their bullshit.  Everything’s got to be bloody operatic.  Met one of ours over here the other day who agrees with me.  Mae Busch.  Remember her?  She’s doing really well, works for Mack Sennett’s Keystone Studio.  Works under Sennett too they tell me. Apparently his engagement to Mabel Normand busted up when she walked in on the two of them at it.  Love to have been a fly on the wall there. 

Moved in with one of our leading stuntmen.  Nice guy, built like a brick shithouse.  Probably eats nails.  Not really supposed to talk about it, the movie bosses don’t like the public knowing the stars don’t always do their own stunts.  Some do of course but since that nasty business with poor old Grace McHugh...did I tell you?  Horse bucked her into a raging river.  Good old Owen Carter (terrific bloke and great cameraman) jumped in to save her but they both drowned.  Shook everyone up over here I can tell you. 

Dolores is the latest mate.  Tits like you wouldn’t believe, and keen.  Bloody hell, you tell them you’ve got a part in a big movie for them and wham!  Between the sheets before you can ... Crikey, what am I saying, sheets?  She doesn’t wait for the bedroom! 

Anyway, send your epic asap.

Say gooday to everyone,

Abysinnia,

Stanley

P.S.  Speaking of epics, have you heard about the old DW’s latest?  ‘Birth of a Nation’.  Unbelievable!  The bloke’s a genius.  Cost over a hundred grand!  Only had to reshoot one scene.  One scene!  The bloke should be organizing the the bloody war.  He’s actually got night shots in it and some beautiful colour tinting and toning.  Moving camera mate!  Boy does that give a movie a lift!  Copied it from that Italian thing, Cabira, but nothing’s new under the sun eh? Wrote an original musical score for the thing and got the LA philharmonic to play at the opening.  And guess how much they asked us to pay?  Two bucks!  And people are paying it!  I’m not kidding.  Millions of them.  Bloody hell mate, I tell you, crane shots and moving camera shots and...oops end of page.  See you.

Placing the letter carefully back in its envelope, hiding it behind the clock, I climbed out the bedroom window and sprinted for The Palace.  Not a soul about, the bark of a single disgruntled mongrel echoing down the street.  Old Travers kept a spare key under the third sheet of tin from the rear and I used it to enter the hushed black space in which I felt so comfortable.  Setting up, I ran my film through at the slowest speed possible.  Too slow and it would catch fire.  Try as I might, I couldn’t even begin to see any of the features Stanley mentioned.  Why hadn’t I seen it for myself?  I was so caught up in the technique I completely blocked out any thought of substance, of theme, of story, and all that other stuff.  Of course Jenny thought I was a couple of feathers short of a cocky’s crest - who wouldn’t?  What a dill.  Thank God I hadn’t shown anyone else. 

For weeks I mulled over my apparent lack of understanding of this medium in which I’d felt I was something of an expert.  I’d never thought about it before, but being an artist was just like being a good sportsman.  There were so many small things one had to learn.  It all looked so easy every Saturday watching Jock McHale dodging and weaving and dobbing it through the big ones, all the time encouraging his team mates on.  Em had taken me to see Julian Ashton at work in his studio once, giving a lesson to his students, effortlessly creating a likeness as they all watched his pencil and brush in awe.  But even he, after thirty years’ experience, used a number of basic tricks, blocking in techniques he called them.  Creating a structure on which to work and combining colours to create the illusion of others.  Based on science and the Impressionists, whoever they were.  The point being, years of research, training and practice were required to make it look easy. 

Stanley wanted to see my edit.  I lost it.  The dog ate it.  It caught fire.  It was so popular it wore out.  Yeah, I liked that one.