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"You kneel at the old lady's feet, she enfolds you. Come," he raised her carefully, standing her with her back to the window where sunlight dressed her promptly in cloak and hood. "We'll put a light behind you. Good Lord, you can look ethereal! It'll be a scene to hit the heart."
This is the man, she thought.
"We can make a great picture, Mae. Trust me."
She gave him her hands. "You're the first one in this business who understands. I am an actress, but not of their school. I have to express things my way."
"You don't have to tell me. Everything's in your face."
"I'll work hard, Mr. Leonard. I adore perfection. I'll do a scene a dozen times until it's right. I don't believe the way some people do — get it done and get it fast."
He didn't laugh. "It's going to be right, don't worry. I've done enough acting myself, I don't direct on the cuff. It isn't fair to the actors or to anyone else. I work with my story writer, I plan the continuity, we rehearse and while we rehearse the cameraman gets his instructions for difficult scenes. I use several cameramen to work with me. We'll talk over the script before we start and every day as we go along. Make suggestions. You are creative, be creative."
Mae felt exhilarated by their first meeting, and more hopeful than she ever had in Hollywood. At last, someone would really be working with and for her — someone who knew what he was doing. Robert Z. Leonard had served his apprenticeship in comic opera and on the stage. A graduate of the University of Colorado, he'd been a prop man in Denver theatres, then a stage manager, comedian and singer. He'd sung in more than a hundred light operas with the Colorado Opera Company before he'd come out to Hollywood to work for Bill Selig, the first man to build a motion-picture set on the west coast. He'd played such strenuous leads as those in The Code of Honor, Robinson Crusoe, The Forest Primeval, and survived the hazards of a serial, The Master Key, before he turned to directing. The director was the pivot, the key figure in motion
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