—Without a doubt, there are Titanic personalities at the helm of Hollywood. And to those who read the papers, it must seem that we alone deserve the credit or condemnation for what reaches the screen. But making a movie is a contingent art, Miss Ross. Yes, a great producer starts with a vision and personally assembles its elements. After an extensive search, he chooses the Mona Lisa as his model. He selects a dress that will drape across her shoulders just so. He arranges her hair. He locates the perfect landscape as a backdrop. He makes her comfortable, unself-conscious. Then patiently, he waits for her to express her innermost humanity through a smile so that he can capture it on canvas. But at that very moment, the studio doors fling open to admit an onslaught of actors and extras, stuntmen and cameramen, foley artists, fitters, gaffers, best boys—every one of whom brandishes a brush.

David spoke of his employees with a grimace, as if their arrival signaled civilization’s second descent into the Dark Ages.

—What I am telling you, Miss Ross, is that every single one of the two hundred men and women I have enlisted to help make my picture can ruin it.

He began ticking off potential setbacks:

—A poorly scripted line of dialogue. A hapless delivery. A garish gown. Unflattering lighting. Maudlin music. Any of these bumbled details can turn a carefully crafted romance into claptrap or a heart-wrenching tragedy into a vaudeville farce. And to this list of pitfalls, I add the public reputations of my stars.

David stood and rolled his sleeves a little tighter, his standard cue that he was about to sum up.

—A movie is not a fancy, Miss Ross. It is not an entertainment or a midsummer night’s dream. It is not even a mirage. It is something more tenuous, essential, and rare. And it is my job to ensure that it reaches its audience in an utterly uncompromised condition.

He thrust his hand forward and Miss Ross took it.

—We’re glad to have you on board, he said.

Then he strode out of the office, yanking the door so soundly behind him that Marcus’s suit coat swung on its hanger like a lantern in the wind.

Miss Ross rose from her chair. She didn’t rise like David to signal that she’d be summing up. She rose to put Marcus’s piles of paper in their proper spots, taking the time to delicately true the edges of each stack with the palms of her hand.