Maddie Ellis and the Malibu Movie Colony is an old-fashioned mystery serial set during the end of the silent movie era. In chapter 4, writer Maddie Ellis takes a look at the troubled film project that has brought her back to Los Angeles, together with the film’s new director, Milo Devlin. Join us as we travel back in time to January 1928.
“I can see why the last writer was fired,” Maddie said, dryly. She and Milo were reviewing Maddie’s copy of the script for the film Sands of Afar over a second pot of tea with apples and cheese—the biscuits had all been eaten. The papers were strewn all over the kitchen table. The margins on every page were filled with notes in Maddie’s deceptively neat handwriting. Many passages were underlined and notated with numbers, others were crossed out entirely and overwritten—proof of the thoroughness of her review and of the numerous problems she was working to address.
“The central problem with the plot is this infernal Djinn that grants wishes all over the place,” Maddie told Milo. “I know the film is meant to be an Arabian Nights fantasy, but it’s a terrible plot device because it prevents the characters from having the initiative to get themselves out of the messes they get in. There is never any real peril or conflict, because everything is easily solved with a wish. That might work for a comedy, but it makes for a very dull adventure story.”
“It’s worse than just dull, it doesn’t make any sense,” Milo agreed, gloomily. “That’s the problem with relying on things like Djinns to solve your problems, instead of finding a practical solution.”
“There’s a reason why they are traditionally restricted to a wish a day or a total of three,” Maddie said. Unlimited wishes would be a disaster. It would be all too easy to destroy the world by accident that way.”
“How?” Milo asked. “Don’t people in stories always just ask for things like gold, or the hand of the Sultan’s daughter in marriage, or even for the Djinn to go back into the bottle after he’s made enough trouble?”
“Ah, but that’s when there’s a three wish limit,” Maddie said. “The first wish might be something small, because you don’t really believe in Djinns. The second is the problem that necessitates using the third wish to undo the problems caused by the second, and then, that’s it, no more wishes for you. With unlimited wishes, well, it would be easy to be careless. People make wishes all the time that they wouldn’t really want granted. They wish that summer would last forever, or that they were dead, or worse, that everyone was dead. And it doesn’t help that Djinns are capricious. They would make sure the worst happened,” she added.
“How do you propose to fix it?” Milo asked.
“By stuffing him back in his bottle, or jewel, in this case, and setting some rules for him.”
“Well, you are, without doubt, the person to do it,” Milo said. “And I’ll be glad for it. I’ve lost a lot of sleep ever since agreeing to take over the direction of this film. It’s such a mess right now and the chances of pulling off something credible are so slim, but just think if we could!” Milo gazed out of the window with a rapt expression. Maddie suspected he was seeing not the neighboring house wall but the debut of a successful film that delighted audiences and charmed critics. “Hoffmann is convinced that you can fix the script, and if you can do that, we may have a chance with it,” he said, coming back to earth.
“I think I know how the film can be saved, but I need to know more about the actors first,” Maddie told him. “Mr. Hoffmann indicated that Johnny Roberts has become increasingly unstable.” Maddie suspected that the producer’s description may have been an understatement. Maddie’s friend Daniel Harrington, who was Hoffmann’s partner, had described the actor not only as erratic but as manic. “Do you think that will affect his performance?” she asked Milo.
“I’ve only met Roberts once, but he was enthusiastic about resuming work,” Milo said.
“That’s encouraging.” Maddie said. “How badly injured is Isabel Flores? Do you think it would be possible for her to return to the set, at least to do some pick up shots so her storyline can be completed?”
“I don’t know about Miss Flores. She isn’t seeing anyone, but I’m hoping perhaps she would see Hoffmann, especially if it means salvaging her role in the film. Perhaps he could sound her out.”
“Good. Now, Marco Malgeri seems competent,” Maddie said. “Do you think he could step up and carry more of the story? Then there’s Clarice Auclair. Daniel Harrington described her to me as ‘a poor little bunny,’ but does she have enough ability to handle a bigger role?”
“What do you have in mind?” Milo asked.
Maddie hesitated. “I know how anxious you and Mr. Hoffmann are to get the production rolling again, but I need to know more before I commit to the plot alterations I have in mind,” she said. “Whether this solution works will depend on the actors.”
Milo looked as if he would like to protest, but Maddie held up a hand. “Usually, a writer comes up with the story and the filmmakers cast the people who they feel will best portray the characters. We have to work backwards this time, taking the people we have and the existing footage of the film and tailoring the story to hold those things together, like a patchwork quilt.”
“You do have a solution, don’t you?” Milo said. “You aren’t just stalling and hoping for inspiration to strike?”
“I do, or I think I do, but I need a little more time, and I need to meet our players. What quilt we make out of all of these bits will depend on them, but I promise you, Milo, it won’t be what they call a crazy quilt—all stray pieces, which is what we have right now. Instead, it will have a solid narrative structure, a pattern that tells a story, a good story. I just need a little time to cut those pieces into slightly different shapes.”
Milo had to be content with that. “The Djinn may be the plot’s biggest problem but the actors are mine,” he sighed. “I’ll be glad to know where we stand with them, too.”
“Milo?” Maddie asked. “What is your vision for this film?”
“Do you know, no one has asked me that,” he said, surprised. “I don’t think I’ve even asked myself that. I was just so glad to get the job and I’ve been running so fast to keep up with it I haven’t really thought. I would like more than anything for this film to be a success—not just a popular one, although who wouldn’t want that?—but also a critical success. A film that was more than just a bit of fluff.” He laughed. “I know, that’s an overreach for a motion picture with a genie wearing silver paint and a princess with a magic crown, and we’ll be lucky if it doesn’t pull us all down with it when it turns out to be a flop, but you asked.”
“It won’t be a flop,” Maddie told him.
“I hope you’re right!” Milo said. “When I was a child I was taken to see George Méliès’ film The Palace of the Arabian Nights. It was a wonderful film, in color, and there was a magician who appeared in a cloud of smoke, and a hero with a magic sword, and an army of fighting skeletons, and a cavern full of treasure.” He laughed but his expression was wistful. “I’d never seen anything so wonderful. I don’t remember anything else about the story, but I’ve never forgotten how that film made me feel when I saw it. If Sands of Afar could do that, well…” he shrugged and gave Maddie a shy, self-deprecating smile.
It was almost dark by the time Milo rose to go. He retrieved his hat from atop the suit of armor in the living room, thanked his hostess for the tea, and walked out into the twilight. Maddie watched his progress, slow but steady, as he strode back down the beach, cane in hand. Then she slipped out of her shoes and stockings and walked down to the edge of the water.
The afterglow of sunset lingered in the sky, a deep orange fading to ashes of roses and then to a pure translucent green, and finally to a deep blue that was almost black. The waxing moon, almost full, gilded the surface of the sea with a path of liquid gold. One star glimmered bright above the horizon. Venus, Maddie thought. The ancient goddess of love in her role as the evening star. It seemed like a good omen on that first evening in her new home. “Make a wish,” she told herself with a laugh, thinking of djinns and the perils of pursuing one’s dreams, but still wishing with all her heart.
On a whim she waded into the water, feeling the pull of the tide around her ankles and the softness of the wet sand beneath her feet. It was cold, but also completely wonderful. She felt her heart grow light with the joy of it. Laughing, she raced back up the beach. There was no one there to see her, and she wouldn’t have cared if there was. She was here in California again. It was January, and she was barefoot on the beach in the moonlight. She had a roof over her head—and what a roof it was! She had a fascinating job to do, one that might lead to all kinds of opportunities, and if it didn’t? Well, it had brought her home again. This wasn’t the home she had left five years before. Nothing could bring that back, but she would make a new home, a new life for herself, and this was a good start.
