Mann snorted.
These scenes showed Clete and Brenda arriving by horse at the scene of the burning house, and then slowly dismounting. It was done the same way the previous scenes were done—by having smoke pots off camera. The first take, Clete caught his foot in his stirrup dismounting.
The second take, Brenda couldn’t get off her horse.
The third take, she tore her gingham dress getting off.
The fourth take, they both managed to get off their horse okay, but Clete stumbled walking forward to his marks.
Franklin leaned over to the editor. “Use the first part of four and cut early to the two-shot.”
The editor was sitting with a clipboard and a small light. He nodded and made a note.
“It’d be better to do it all in one,” Mann said.
Franklin said, “No, it’s taking too long.”
Franklin was right, I knew. It was another example of Mann knowing nothing about movies. To have them ride up, dismount, walk forward, and have their dialogue in one shot would take much too long.
“Besides, we’ll be intercutting their POV,” Franklin said. “I have a cutting piece.”
Mann sighed.
I glanced once more at Perkins to see if he was making sense of this. I couldn’t tell—he seemed to be paying attention only to the screen.
Now we had a new scene entirely. It was from another part of the film—maybe half an hour in the final picture, from the burning house scene. It showed Clete talking to Brenda, saying goodbye in the sunset. He was telling her that he would come back to her, once he had taken care of things.
Mann sat forward abruptly and said, “What!”
Franklin looked at him. “Something wrong?”
Mann sat back. “No, no, nothing,” he said. But he seemed rattled. “It’s just the light. That sunset is too strong.”
Franklin was getting annoyed. “The sunset,” he said, “is not under our control. You think I should have put a dimmer on the sunset?”
“Don’t get mad,” Mann said. “I just mean the angle.”
On-screen, Clete said, “There’s no use your worrying, ma’am. Things’ll turn out fine. I promise.” And he gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek. Then he looked at the camera. “How was that?”
“Not bad, Clete,” came Franklin’s off-screen voice, and then the film ran out, and we had another take of the same scene.
Mann fidgeted in his chair. “You print all the takes?”
“No,” Franklin said. “Just two, as I recall.”
The new slate said take eight. “Action,” came the off-screen voice.
Clete began to speak. “There’s no use your worrying, ma’am. Things’ll turn out mighty fine. I mean just fine. I mean—shit.”
Brenda looked irritated. Clete looked flustered.
Take nine.
“There’s no use your worrying, ma’am. Things’ll turn out fine.” There was a long pause this time. Clete and Brenda stared moodily into each other’s eyes. And he kissed her full on the mouth.
“Use that one,” Franklin said to the editor. “I think the big kiss will work better.”
The editor made a note.
