Remake

I took a drink of champagne. “They aren’t on disk. It’s a direct fibe-op feed,” I said, and sat down at the comp.

“Is that what you do?” she said from behind me. She was standing looking over my shoulder at the screen. “You ruin movies?”

“That’s what I do,” I said. “I protect the movie-going public from the evils of demon rum and chooch. Mostly demon rum. There aren’t all that many movies with drugs in them. Valley of the Dolls, Postcards from the Edge, a couple of Cheech and Chongs, The Thief of Bagdad. I also remove nicotine if the Anti-Smoking League didn’t get there first.” I deleted the champagne glass Ingrid Bergman was raising to her lips. “What do you think? Cocoa or tea?”

She didn’t say anything.

“It’s a big job. Maybe you could do the musicals. Want me to access Mayer and see if he’ll hire you?”

She looked stubborn. “Heada said you could make opdisks for me off the feed,” she said stiffly. “I just need them to practice with. Till I can find a dancing teacher.”

I turned around in the chair to look at her. “And then what?”

“If you don’t want to lend them to me, I could watch them here and copy down the steps. When you’re not using the comp.”

“And then what?” I said. “You copy down the steps and practice the routines and then what? Gene Kelly pulls you out of the chorus — no, wait, I forgot, you don’t like Gene Kelly — Gene Nelson pulls you out of the chorus and gives you the lead? Mickey Rooney decides to put on a show? What?”

“I don’t know. When I find a dancing teacher—”

“There aren’t any dancing teachers. They all went home to Meadowville fifteen years ago, when the studios switched to computer animation. There aren’t any soundstages or rehearsal halls or studio orchestras. There aren’t any studios, for God’s sake! All there is is a bunch of geekates hacking away on Crays and a bunch of corporation execs telling ’em what to do. Let me show you something.” I twisted back around in the chair. “Menu,” I said. “Top Hat. Frame 97-265.”

Fred and Ginge came up on the screen, spinning around in the Piccolino. “You want to bring musicals back. We’ll do it right here. Forward at five.” The screen slowed to a sequence of frames. Kick and. Turn and. Lift.

“How long did you say Fred had to practice his routines?”

“Six weeks,” she said tonelessly.

“Too long. Think of all that rehearsal-hall rent. And all those tap shoes. Frame 97-288 to 97-631, repeat four times, then 99-006 to 99-115, and continuous loop. At twenty-four.” The screen slid into realtime, and Fred lifted Ginge, lifted her again, and again, effortlessly, lightly. Lift, and lift, and kick and turn.

“Does that kick look high enough to you?” I said, pointing at the screen. “Frame 99-108 and freeze.” I fiddled with the image, raising Fred’s leg till it touched his nose. “Too high?” I eased it back down a little, smoothed out the shadows. “Forward at twenty-four.”

Fred kicked, his leg sailing into the air. And lift. And lift. And lift. And lift.

“All right,” Alis said. “I get the point.”

“Bored already? You’re right. This should be a production number.” I hit multiply. “Eleven, side by side,” I said, and a dozen Fred Astaires kicked in perfect synch, lift, and lift, and lift, and lift. “Multiply rows,” I said, and the screen filled with Fred, lifting, kicking, tipping his top hat.

I turned around to look at Alis. “Why would they want you when they can have Fred Astaire? A hundred Fred Astaires? A thousand? And none of them have trouble learning a step, none of them get blisters on their feet or throw temper tantrums or have to be paid or get old or—”

“Get drunk,” she said.

“You want Fred drunk?” I said. “I can do that, too. Frame 97-412 and freeze.” Fred Astaire stopped in midturn, smiling. “Frame 97—” I said, and the screen went silver and then to legalese. “The character of Fred Astaire is currently unavailable for fibe-op transmission. Copyright ownership suit ILMGM v. RKO-Warner…”

“Oops. Fred’s in litigation. Too bad. You should have taken that paste-up while you had the chance.”

She wasn’t looking at the screen. She was looking at me, her gaze alert, focused, the way it had been on the Piccolino. “If you’re so sure what I want is impossible, why are you trying so hard to talk me out of it?”

Because I don’t want to see you down on Hollywood Boulevard in a torn-net leotard. I don’t want to have to stick your face in a River Phoenix movie so Mayer’s boss can pop you.

“You’re right,” I said. “Why the hell am I?” I turned to the comp and said, “Print accesses, all files.” I ripped the hardcopy out of the printer. “Here. Take my fibe-op accesses and make all the disks you want. Practice till your little feet bleed.” I thrust it at her.

She didn’t take it.