The Busby Berkeley Academy MP3
Read by Lin Sagovsky
“Action! Take two.”The dancers began to move as one, climbing the curved steps beside the pools in mirrored lines, spinning themselves full circle, twirling umbrellas between their fingertips. Each was dressed in white, with identical caps and shorts, legs swishing by each other in near-transparent tights. From the back a third line, in blue and white striped bathing suits, took up positions near the water. They faced the side camera, turned their heads left, right, then left again, and smiled. Then they jumped, one, two, three …
“Stop!”
The video froze.
“Rewind five seconds. Play.”
They were jumping in again, the splashes a slow rhythm.
“Stop! Rewind five seconds. Play.”
The ripples overlapped and bobbed.
“This one. The fourth one along. Do you see? She’s too slow, a little behind the others. Rewind five seconds. Play.”
It was almost imperceptible, but there it was. A tenth of a second, maybe less. The tall man scratched the side of his head. Dust motes floated in the air while the other waited for him to speak.
“Who is that girl?”
“Er, Diana I believe. Diana Three.”
“I want you to get all the footage you can find of her. With notes. Particularly highlight any asynchronies such as this. Compare it to the schema please. As soon as possible. You may go now.”
“Yes sir.” The second man left, limping slightly. The right foot was a size or two bigger than the left and came down heavily on the tiled floor, the sound echoing through the corridor.
Alone now, Busby sighed and restarted the video. How had he not noticed it before? It was a substantial imperfection, something that the experienced viewer would pick up. He watched to the end in silence. It was getting there, nearly perfect, but that was not enough. It only took one thing to undermine the choreography, and Diana Three had destroyed this one. Sure, it was a difficult move, but not the hardest.
Still. It might be there next time. There was always tomorrow.
*
“Action! Take one.”
The two lines of figures climbed perfectly before the third approached from the back, heels clicking down in unison. They looked to the camera, turned their heads, smiled …
“Stop!”
The dancers froze where they were.
“Diana? Diana Three?”
“Yes sir?” The face was nearly blank, but some small flicker of fear seemed to pass across it.
“Your smile. It must be synchronised with the others. You were late. Remember, exactly at the same time, smiling through the cheeks. Exactly six teeth showing, hold as you turn your head, release on the count of four.”
“Yes sir.” Was that a nervous glance he saw? Those around her looked on impassively, betraying no emotion.
“From the top. Action! Take two.”
The routine ran through until those on top started diving into the pool, one, two, three …
“Stop!”
The fourth diver, already falling, disturbed the hush with a splash. Busby reddened.
“Diana Three!”
“Sir?”
“The dive. You must be vertical. Entering the water gracefully. Not like some overweight slob in a provincial swimming pool. You must have been at least five degrees off vertical. Concentrate!”
“Yes sir.” The dancers returned to their starting positions.
“Action! Take three.”
Walking, twirling, waiting, diving …
“Stop! You!”
No-one moved.
“Hey! I’m talking to you! You deaf or something?”
No response.
“Fuck! Diana Three?”
“Sir?”
“Sir?” His voice now whiny, matching hers for pitch. “Sir? Hey, you halfwit, timing! Timing on the dive! That’s the same damn thing as you did yesterday! How can you make the same mistake twice?”
She turned her eyes down slightly. The tall man grasped onto something on the side of his director’s chair – it was a half-full Coke bottle – squeezed it until his fingers whitened, and then threw it at the stage. It smashed at the feet of two dancers with their umbrellas raised. Neither reacted, even when bubbles started fizzing beneath the bare feet of one.
Busby threw his arms in the air and stormed out of the room. Everyone else remained where they were, not looking at one another.
The second man cleared his throat. “OK, that’s it for the moment. You may go now.” The dancers stacked the props neatly and filed out.
*
Busby was drinking whisky. The video that the other man had made for him, the video of Diana Three, was playing in front of him, but he wasn’t watching it. He was looking back through a diary, occasionally grimacing.
‘January 24th. I begin to see the project stretching out in front of me. Watched Gold Diggers again today. The sixth time this year. As beautiful as ever. Busby Berkeley knew it, even all those years ago. A true genius. Such a touching scene when …’
He turned a couple of pages in revulsion at the gushing, naïve fool staring back at him.
‘February 29th. Decided that I will call myself Busby. If I am to take on the mantel then I must become the man. To take the body and motion and turn them into something beautiful. By control and discipline, until under the greatest of direction it begins to appear completely free. Freedom from control. Freedom, from control. Two new dancers arrived today …’
Busby took a gulp of whisky, turned over.
‘March 20th. Watching videos of gymnastic displays from North Korea. Incredible, inspiring. If Busby were alive today I would like to think this is where he would be. To follow his art wherever it went to the pinnacle of universal motion. Is this what Leni Riefenstahl was trying to capture?’
What on earth was he talking about? He must have been drinking that night. He flipped through to a well-thumbed page.
‘… the limits of what could realistically be achieved. While many – the vast majority in fact – of the errors I see are due to mistakes in the schema, and hence to inaccurate or mistimed electrical pulses, there is a remainder that cannot be explained in this way. These mistakes recur through some actions of some of the dancers where the response does not match the stimulation pattern. They appear to my eyes unpredictable in both timing and content. I can only believe them to be acts of unconscious rebellion.’ The last two words had been underlined later, twice, in red pen. ‘It does not seem possible to eliminate these responses in those so affected by increasing the intensity of stimulus, at least up until the point where it begins to retard motor co-ordination …’
He remembered the difficulties of that time, the excesses. Brainstems burnt out from the current. Muscles that, overstimulated, locked into place, legs becoming stiff as trees until the frame above them overbalanced. Anna Four falling flat onto her face like that, her expression unchanged as the bones cracked beneath. Of course there was no use for her then, not after the damage …
There was a knock on the door.
“Come in.”
The man limped in and inhaled deeply. “Sir, I have finished the report on Diana Three. However I have not been entirely able to … I mean, there are …”
“I thought you might say that. Just leave it there. Thank you.”
The man continued standing in the doorway. Busby rolled his eyes.
“You may go now.”
As the heavy footsteps receded, Busby’s eyes turned from the pages back to the diary, to a passage he could by now quote by heart:
‘An almost heretical thought now assails me. Up until now I have always worked to completely eliminate all errors, an end that I seem to be always approaching but never reaching. What if, instead, the objective became not scientific perfection, but perfection of a different kind, the cultivation of a small but visible discrepancy so as to enhance the whole. The mole on a face that, in its asymmetry, creates a higher beauty. We would be looking for –‘ here Busby’s lips began to move along with the words ‘- an individual with certain qualities, imperfect in carrying out the directions but playing, as it were, around them, like a jazz musician plays around the beat, all the while with the rhythm section keeping perfect time …’
Busby smiled and picked up the report.
*
Nicola One showed no reaction when told of her demotion. That her reward for her absolute fidelity in carrying out the schema, for never having made a mistake, should involve being dropped to fourth diver, troubled Busby, but neither she nor anyone else made a sound of protest. He imagined, though, that Diana Three smiled slightly when told of her new role.
“Action! Take one.”
The diving was perfect this time, as was the lead-up to the final dance. As the supporting cast peeled off, leaving only Diana Three in the spotlight, Busby dusted some lint off the shoulder of his white jacket and entered the stage. They held hands, turned their heads towards the camera, advanced sideways, spun. Busby began to grin. It was all wrong, the movements imperfect at every point, but – there was something else there, something he had never felt with Nicola One. An intoxication. He imagined the walls falling away, moving a great distance in an instant; standing on the edge of some Pacific island, hands touching; a blood red sky, sunset. All the time the bodies moved. At the end he found himself applauding, a catch in his breath.
“Everyone, thank you! Thank you so much! Everyone – we have just found our new lead, Diana Three! Thank you!” He started clapping and the rest followed, beating out an even rhythm.
This time, he was sure that she smiled.
(c) Mark Romasko, 2013
Mark Romasko is a short story writer and forthcoming novelist currently hiding out in the badlands of Surrey. Most recently published in the apocalyptic anthology Terminal Earth, he is ending a recent hiatus to showcase his unique take on history’s greatest choreographer…
Lin Sagovsky’s credits include talking books, TV narrations and BBC R4/World Service programmes aplenty. She’s equally passionate about taking her actor/playwright background to all corners of the business world via her consultancy Play4Real, helping businesspeople use voice and body to create presence and fun in their working lives.
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