Voice of the Heart. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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halted in the hall and spun around to face Francesca. ‘I didn’t say that!’ he snapped. ‘And I’m not going to embark on a long discussion about movie acting with you, particularly at this hour. It’s far too late, and I’m not sure you’d understand what I’m talking about anyway.’
Concern had settled on her face and her eyes held a plea. He felt a stab of remorse for his brusqueness and impatience. ‘Oh, what the hell! Come on, give me one for the road, and I’ll try to explain as best as I can, in simple terms.’
‘And I’ll endeavour to understand,’ Francesca retorted. She walked ahead into the drawing room, bristling with irritation. Earlier, over coffee and liqueurs, her reservations about him had started to crumble, and she had even begun to like him. He had been warm and understanding, and a marvellous raconteur, keeping them entertained with hilarious anecdotes, and had shown a lovely sense of humour. But once again he had brushed her the wrong way. Her back was up.
Victor poured Remy Martin into two large brandy snifters and carried them over to the fireplace, where Francesca had seated herself, her body rigid in the chair. Her face was closed and her pretty mouth had narrowed into a thin sût of obduracy. Victor’s glance swept over her and unexpectedly a corner of his mouth twitched, but he swallowed his amusement and handed her a snifter silently. He sat down opposite her, picked up his brandy and contemplated for a few moments. Then, without looking at her, he started slowly, ‘Katharine Tempest knows more about acting in her little finger than I do in my whole body, and I’ve been at this game much longer. She’s instinctive, the consummate actress. She’s quite brilliant, in fact. On a stage. But great stage actresses don’t always make great movie stars.’
‘Why not?’ He had fully captured Francesca’s interest and she leaned forward, her irritation forgotten.
‘Because on a stage everything is more pronounced, slightly exaggerated. By that I mean mannerisms, movements, voice projection. It must be just the opposite on film. Understated. Underplayed, if you like. It’s the camera, of course. A movie camera is lethal.’ He laid great emphasis on the last word. ‘Really lethal. And for one very simple reason. The movie camera photographs your thoughts, and sometimes it even appears to photograph your very soul. You see, movie acting has to do with thinking and intelligence, much more than histrionics and an expression of excessive emotion. And actors who have been trained for the stage don’t always grasp that properly.’
He took another swallow of the brandy, and continued, ‘Let me give you an example. Clarence Brown was a wonderful director who made many of Garbo’s pictures, including Anna Karenina. When he was making that particular film, he kept thinking she wasn’t giving him what he wanted, and he would shoot a scene over and over again. But later, when he saw the takes of the scene on the screen, he realized she had had what he was after all the time, from the very first take. You see, Garbo did something not visible to the human eye, but very visible to the camera’s eye. She projected her innermost thoughts to it, and yes, her soul, and all this was beautifully captured on film. When that happens, it’s extraordinary, and quite magical. Another director, Fred Zinnemann, always says, “The camera’s got to love you.” And he’s absolutely right. If it doesn’t, if that chemistry isn’t there, then you’re dead. Do you follow me?’
‘Yes, you explain it very well. What you’re saying is that you’re not sure Katharine will have this … this chemistry with the camera.’
‘Exactly. Oh, I know she has talent, great ability, a wonderful speaking voice, and that she’ll photograph magnificently in colour, but there’s a lot more to it than that. Acting in front of a camera is a very special technique. I’m lucky, in that I have always had great rapport with the camera, and yet I’m not so sure I would be as good as Katharine on a stage. I might fail miserably, as many other movie stars have in that medium. It’s funny, but you simply can’t he to the camera. If you do, the lies are there on film.’
‘But surely Katharine must understand about this special technique. She is a professional – ‘
‘I don’t know whether she does or not. To be honest I’ve never discussed movie acting with her. I should have done, I suppose, but I wanted to fix the test for her first.’
‘But you will help her, talk to her, won’t you?’
‘Sure. I plan to do it some time next week. I can give her a few hints, and the director I’ve chosen to make the test will take her through her paces first.’
‘I should jolly well hope so!’
Victor looked at her with some amusement. ‘And tell me, Francesca, why are you so interested in Katharine’s career?’
‘Because I like her, and I know how tremendously important the test is to her. It was easy to see that, after the way she reacted at the dinner table. That’s why I feel so ghastly about the awful things I said. About the book, I mean. It was none of my business, and you didn’t ask my opinion. I’m not a bit surprised she was so upset. And I’m sure you wanted to kill me, too.’
‘Not at all.’ He smiled crookedly. ‘But I’ll have to keep you away from my screenwriter. I don’t want you planting any radical ideas in his head.’
‘Gosh, I wouldn’t dream of doing anything like that!’
‘I’m kidding. Knowing Nicky, I’m sure he’s more than well acquainted with the intrinsic truths in the novel.’
‘Nicky?’
‘Nicholas Latimer.’
‘Do you mean the novelist?’
‘That’s right. America’s boy wonder of literature. I can see, by the look on your face, that you’re wondering why I’m using an American to adapt an English classic for the screen. And that you disapprove.’
‘No, I don’t,’ Francesca protested.
He grinned. ‘Nick Latimer does happen to be a Rhodes Scholar, as well as a hell of a fine writer.’
‘I’m a great admirer of his.’
‘Then you have good taste.’ Victor tossed down the last of his cognac, and rose. ‘Well, now that I’ve enlightened you a bit about movie acting, I’m going to let you go to bed.’ He picked up his jacket and put it on, and together the two of them went out into the hall.
Victor took his trenchcoat from the cupboard and threw it over his arm. He turned to say goodnight, and as he looked at Francesca he experienced that same curious shock of récognition which had so startled him at the beginning of the evening. She hovered near the drawing room door, shrouded in shadows. In the diffused light her face was partially obscured, the pristine features blurred, and she seemed, at that moment, terribly familiar to him, although he knew tonight was the first time he had ever set eyes on her. And yet … an evanescent memory stirred in some remote corner of his mind, and was gone before he could grasp it. He stepped closer to her, in order to see her more clearly, and an unanticipated surge of desire rushed through him; he had the spontaneous urge to take her in his arms and crush her to him. For one awful moment he thought he was going to be stupid enough to do so.
Instead, he found himself saying, somewhat hoarsely, ‘How old are you, Francesca?’
She lifted her face and looked up at him, her eyes wide and luminous. ‘Nineteen,’ she said.
‘I thought as much.’ He thrust out his hand. ‘Thanks for a swell evening. Good night.’
‘Good night, Victor.’
He turned and left. She stared at the door for several seconds, frowning, and then she went to switch off the lights. As she moved from room to room, she wondered why she felt strangely let down and disappointed.
Victor Mason sat at the desk in the sitting