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The Rising Actress It was the riveting year that was 1927.

The roaring twenties or the annes folles-as the French called them- plagued the atmosphere. New York City now consisted mainly of parties and prosperity. The flapper movement was in full swing and the city was the most populated in the world, occupied with conspicuous dresses, scintillating lights, roaring jazz melodies and sparkling champagne flowing from the bottle as well as the notes from Fat Wallers piano. Deep in the thriving, exhilarating city stood the proud, opulent home of Henry Brookes, a flourishing film director, caught up amongst the rich and famous. As a young yet masterful 28 year old, life involved many challenges and expectations, as he strived to create the first feature with sound. The production of colour films was now a well-established procedure and subsequently the public desired more development. This now enabled Henrys career to aspire to new heights. Henrys endeavour was adored by many of the decades film fanatics. His endearing motivation and creativity created the picture that filled hearts and minds with passion. He was the film prodigy, more famous than Felix the cats pace. Yet, to Henry, the admiration was superficial. In his eyes he was admired for the feature, himself lacking the humanism to be truly appreciated. Times were changing for the better in Henrys career. Cinema was the business of evolution and he was revelling in all of its glory. Attending after parties with lavish themes of fame, men sporting moustaches nearly as perfect as their fashionable suits, beautiful women dressed in diamonds and dollars, this was not enough for Henry Brookes. He needed, craved more.

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It was a limpid, cold night. Breath is pronounced with words as Henry ardently sang along to the radio, embracing the jazz age that fuelled the city surrounding. As Henry opened his window to embrace the fresh air, parties in the distance overwhelmed the radio containing upbeat sounds of the current era: fraudulent laughter of rich American dreamers and music as smooth as the clean cut faces. Henry was somewhat optimistic, this is mainly why he was so successful and he was an astute character, which allowed him to prove this optimism. Henry moved swiftly back across the room, mesmerised by the ambient party sounds that now made the radio helpless. A champagne glass reflected off the rooms electric light into Henrys vision, snapping him out of the atmospheric illusion he had fallen into- of which the majority had fallen into permanently. Henry retrieved the glass and examined it: a distinct lilac lipstick mark covered the rim while a cherry lay disconsolate at the bottom; the butler must have missed it from the after-party earlier on in the week subsequent to the talkie preview that had taken place in the offices on the next avenue. Beside the glass lay a crumpled note, simply reading: Sorry. I.M Thoughts of the future fuelled the worry that plagued his mind, would he achieve the missing facet of his almost complete life. His life revolved around effortless money, creating aimless pictures yet receiving more praise than a flapper girls skirt but still, something was lacking. He turned the radio off and the butler obsequiously entered to

collect the champagne glass and turn off the lights at Henrys command. His feet moved briskly toward his bedroom in necessity for rest. Music and laughter echoed up the stairs, allowing the party atmosphere from across the way to continuously remind Henry of what was present and awaiting him in the morning when he would rise: a life of success and achievement, minus true happiness- it was almost as valueless as a speakeasy with no liquor.

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The days of production grew longer and more monotonous . Despite having a significant presence in cinema, Henry was never a regular at the premieres or casual movies. Production and directing was his part of the process; he controlled all efficacious decisions. The problem lay with Henrys motive- he was to be a chaser, not a catcher. Something new was there to be taken. The studio was based in New Jersey. The place where films sprang from in Henrys life, becoming longer, costlier yet significantly more polished. Entertainment factories of visionary wonder where production was broken down into marvellous components. Henrys studio was one of the majors and one of the few holding the creative genius of the director as many directors creativity had been drained through the factory system. The set had to be perfect today, Henry was in an adventurous mood and the production couldnt be an inch from genius-he was never a man of positive superlatives. Sound with cinema, talkies, was what everyone was anticipating. The production lights shined not on his set, but on him in essence. Henry called a halt to the proceedings and gave the crew a break. His coffee sat cold yet his brow held heat like a Buicks hood on a warm day. Every so often there had to be a break, the exhausted faces couldnt hide the frustration of creating such new developments. Though sleep and rest were abortive for Henry-talkies were powering up a new age and anything was beginning to seem possible in cinema. Henry slouched in his chair, wiped his brow and determinedly shouted: Lets shoot! It was now late evening and the streets were lit with vitality and exuberance. Filming was complete for the day and the crew had retreated back to the world of nightlife satisfaction. Henry travelled home in his Lincoln, his body more fatigued than after a night of Charleston at the dance halls. The new roadside electric lights highlighted the gleaming paint covering the steel framework as the automobile motored freely along the unimpeded roads. The journey was never formidable or mundane for him; he in fact enjoyed it-despite the daily repetitiveness-as the new Holland tunnel had recently opened which relaxed the journey a lot. However, the executive producers had been advising Henry persistently to rest for a few days; they had given him an envelope, which now lay abandoned on the conscientiously polished dashboard, reading: URGENT. He reached a gas station and pulled in to re-fuel before proceeding with his journey through the tunnel. A few days rest was becoming ever more appealing, the more it was considered. Fill it up, please, No problem sir, no problem. agreed the man in an amenable manner. The gas station was relatively worn down and it was clear that the owner was grateful of the dollar extra he had just received as the money was handed over. As the owner walked humbly back into the gas stations work shed, Henry sat pondering over whether or not to investigate the envelope that lay on the dashboard. Hesitantly he

picked it up and groped it in wonder of the content, finally revealing what was inside after failure to assume. In it was a lone ticket for a play at the Astor Place theatre on Broadway with an attached note: Brookes, We feel its time you had a break. Go and enjoy a night of theatre, well handle it the production for a while. Were serious. Henry was never normally able to attend the theatre due to his work requirements, whilst at the same time having a slight disdain for it due to his stereotype of the theatre promoting garish dreamers. He believed it to be another attraction for females sporting gaudy costumes more tasteless than their husbands recklessly arranged flannel suits-something already polluting his life. The butler retrieved the larger luggage from the Lincoln on Henrys arrival as he veered towards the kitchen to collect his own drink before surrendering to tiredness. The champagne glass previously collected by the butler lay desolate on the wash board, abandoned like a rural area without the pleasant warmth of the West Coast, once more symbolic of the loneliness within Henry.

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Broadway- occupying theatres in their prime. Productions were still increasing and influencing theatres of the world, drawing crowds with either a passion for new styles of craftsmanship or an intention to flourish their possessions. Broadway was never meant to be beautiful or a host to the rich but instead hoped that people would feel livelier in its tonic light-bath during the hours of serenading each night. Henry approached with a hesitant look of excitement, blinded by the scintillating lights of the great white way. He arrived dressed less garishly than the other guestssporting oxford bags and a suit jacket with a wide, peaked lapel contrasting with many short tuxedos to the tail coat-yet naturally, he was established to all of those . He waved precariously at those greeting him as he entered the ticket booth, uncertain about names while his Lincoln was parked by the valet boy. Hey Mr. Brookes! shouted an enthusiastic idoliser, his excitement clear to see. A duteous steward led him to his seat situated on the balcony, providing him with the best view of the stage. The theatre was designed in a Greek style, fronted by imposing grand marble columns and internally capturing all of which to see, hear and feel. The artificial light was dimmed and electrically powered spotlights placed onto the stage as two actors and an actress entered the stage. Anticipation swept across the seated crowd, a feeling more tense than the first transatlantic take-off. The play underway, the crowd are raised to delight, except Henry-he grew tiresome and bored, he watched productions repetitively each day. While flashes of his tedious day-time work haunted him, a moment of aberrancy graced the stage. Entranced by a figure as she swept around the stage- fresh emotion and curiosity now lay within him as he tried to connect with her eyes with guile. The figure was alluring and surprisingly familiar. Henry rushed to collect a program, desperate to find out the name of the actress that had suddenly attracted him towards the stage. On the third page was the list of actors and actresses, he read the one actress aloud anxiously: Isabella Mor...dac...i... the name seemed familiar yet he couldnt understand why. She is a fine actress isnt she? whispered the steward, interrupting Henrys

attempt of pronunciation. Is that the actress on just now? Yes, yes indeed. Apparently she was brought over to New York from Napoli, you know...Italy? Desperately seeking an opportunities to pursue her acting career. Henry struggled to comprehend what he had witnessed on this night, a girl with the most delicate movement with a presence of vibrant beauty and raw talent that had so easily captured Henrys eye, she was rare and exactly what Henrys life was missing, and he could offer her exactly what she was missing. The show had now finished and he made for the door. It was late and Henry searched for the valet boy who quickly came into the sight with the car, Henry flicked him a dime and got inside to rekindle the events that had just occurred. He sat in the car and tried to gather his fragmented emotions that had been scattered around the theatre, a theatre that had been brought to life by a woman he could only imagine or unrealistically create in cinema. Henry continued to wait apprehensively in his car, hoping that he could capture one more look or even approach her. As the darkness of the Broadway landscape became darker, his belief became stronger and brighter than ever before. This had been a night of serendipity, this is where Henry Brookes truly made it in life, fate had finally caught up with him and he knew that he and Isabella would be as good of a pairing as Babe Ruth and a home run.

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The Cotton Club. Approaching their usual spot for their 10th date, the club looked just as astounding and vibrant as the first time they ventured- the music echoed onto the street and the guests created outlines of animated dance in the windows. The past few weeks had thrown Henry: he was apprehensive, unconfident and aimless in every motion he made towards her, however he enjoyed the challenge and she was no short of confidence. Time controlled and determined their relationship while Isabella lavished in the new luxuries she had been invited into. A waiter led them to their table. Henry knew the owner and always got a good table next to the entertainer, be it Nat King Cole, Duke Ellington, Art Tatum or Fats Waller- it was never a club to disappoint. Isabella herself however was something else; she was vivacious and could bring Henry out of his depths within minutes of small talk, intensifying the mood and causing passions to race across the table with more power than the Wall St. Stock market. As the night held onto the passion, conversations became familiar and Henry felt it was finally time to discuss the possibilities he had been pondering on for all of the four weeks they had been an item. He was finally certain that he knew exactly how to bring Isabella into his life forever. Isabella? Yes darling? her adventurous Italian accent capturing eyes whos ears overheard. Art Tatum had now announced the break and was making his way to the bar with the cheers of the Cotton Club continuing to shake the room like a Harlem Globetrotters slam dunk on a rigid rim. ...I have something to propose. Dont jump to conclusions now. Its not what you might think at first hearing. Im aware weve not long met but I feel like youre the one Im looking for. Its about your career in the business... Henry gazed at the reaction of Isabella; her eyes opening wider in disbelief, becoming more intrigued at every word spoken by him as her dreams were made

reality. In his aspiration was a picture, a cinematic picture that would evolve the world of cinema- gambling his reputation, achievements and new found love. It was Isabella who Henry truly believed would be the catalyst however. As far as Henry was aware, he was no longer alone; he had acquired his missing part. They ordered a celebratory bottle of the most honourable champagne and sank back into the atmospheric enclosure that the Cotton Club offered, one of them smirking in the most devious of ways. The champagne was quickly dismissed as the night became blurred, while slurred conversations made themselves established. Ragtime music continued to echo around in favour to the cheers and Henry and Isabella smiled with accomplishment. They eventually abandoned their table and danced towards the door in celebration of such a triumphant night, Henry failing to glance back and consider that at their table stood nothing but their champagne glasses, empty aside from a disconsolate cherry that lay at the bottom of one, covered in lilac lipstick.

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