Bendy, page 14
Well then.
I thought about my favorite vaudeville acts, I thought Burns and Allen, Abbott and Costello. This made sense. This could work.
“Partners. I think maybe that might work,” I said. I reached my hand across the table, I remember it was one of the few times I ever felt nervous. I should have trusted my gut then. But we shook hands and the nerves were replaced by a thrilling feeling. I turned to Abby. “You want a job?” She laughed. “I’m being dead serious, Abby.”
“I know you are, Joey. But I can’t draw like that and I still have a year left in my art program,” she replied.
“You can draw like that if you practice,” I told her. “And that’s just fine. You will always have a job at Joey Drew Studios if you need one.”
Abby didn’t join the studio until three years later. When she finished art school she’d decided to give it a go as an artist herself. She didn’t do too badly, but she didn’t do well either. “I’m not boring enough and I’m not avant-garde enough,” she’d told me once over cocktails. It was shortly after that she joined the studio as an artist. She rose quickly through the ranks because I was right, all she needed was a little practice and she became the best artist on my team. Having her leading the department right now has been a complete joy.
Abby and Henry never ended up working together, which I suppose is a little funny to think about considering they had been friends before I showed up on the scene. I think to this day they still keep in touch, though we never really discuss it. Henry left for his own reasons, and the correspondence between us became less and less. To be honest, it was almost like a weight off when he left. He had grown more sensitive as the studio became more successful and giving him pep talks had become exhausting for me. All the good qualities he brought, the hard work and diligence, were being undermined by a restless need for something different. Something that wasn’t Bendy. I will never understand that drive. Bendy was and is perfection.
It’s fascinating. Henry was never the showman like I was. He didn’t tend to be easily remembered by those who met him when we did business. I was invariably the face of the company, the one introduced first at a gala, the one to whom people slipped their business cards. Yet in the end he ended up setting up camp in this small corner of my memory. I can’t deny that he is tied to the creation of Bendy, to the creation of the studio itself. That at one time, in one small apartment, one too warm evening, we had shaken hands.
That once upon a time we had been partners.
He’ll always be there, in the dark recesses of my mind. Always linked to me that way.
Funny how the forgettable man is now forever in my mind.
You can’t predict how these things will happen.
They just happen.
Everyone makes mistakes. Yes, even yours truly! That being said, I don’t make many mistakes, and never a big one. That is, rarely a big one. I am now in this book of mine going to confess to something that might surprise you. I did make a really big mistake once. The good news is I fixed it. I hope that sharing my mistake with you all will demonstrate that not only can we geniuses be fallible but that mistakes don’t have to be permanent.
When I was putting my team together for Joey Drew Studios I knew I needed very specific people. I needed someone who was in charge of Story and in charge of Art. I needed someone who had a way with technology. And I needed the right accountant and marketing people. What I also knew I needed were some musicians to add some background music here and there to the cartoons.
That was my mistake.
“Some musicians.”
It’s strange to me now to think about such a silly obvious error. Especially considering how much I have always appreciated the role of music in film and entertainment. I always knew it was important, but I didn’t fully understand how it was made. I was ignorant of the process. So it wasn’t until two years after the studio had been up and running, that it clicked. I’d composed the odd ditty here and there, but in the early days most of the Bendy cartoons were a barrage of sound effects with absolutely no melody. They were swell, I’m sure you’ve seen them and enjoyed them yourself, but they weren’t what I, ever the perfectionist, wanted them to be. Something was off.
That something came to me like a lightning bolt hitting the one tree in the middle of an empty field, and it forever changed everything about the Bendy ’toons.
1931
Here’s something you youngsters might not know, or have only heard about from your parents, but back before “talkies” were invented (with the very famous Al Jolson film The Jazz Singer in 1927), movies didn’t have anyone speaking in them or any background noise or anything. Movies were totally silent. Now that didn’t mean that you just sat there and watched a movie in silence, oh no! Someone played the piano during the movie, and they played it so the music matched the tone of what was happening on-screen. Yes, in the movie theater, down by the front, just below the screen, there would be a musician sitting at an upright piano playing live while the movie was being screened. This music served two purposes, the more pragmatic one of which was to drown out the sound of the film projector and any audience members who felt like sharing their opinions on the movie. But the more important purpose was to add to the storytelling. Music tells us so much about what to feel about a character or a moment on-screen.
It’s funny, isn’t it? We don’t have a soundtrack in our day-to-day lives, we have no music playing during a dramatic moment, that certainly doesn’t happen in real life (though it would be quite something if it did), but when we see a film and hear the music it feels right, it feels real. There again is that illusion. There is nothing real about music playing spontaneously to reflect our inner feelings, but we still find it makes perfect sense when we see it. Almost more sense than if it wasn’t there at all.
Now the way the music playing worked was that there was sheet music given to piano players to follow. That sheet music wasn’t necessarily specific to the film, but it was specific to the mood. There would be music for suspenseful moments, for action sequences, even specific kinds of action sequences. You can imagine that not all the musicians playing the piano were the same level of talent, and I can tell you I’ve seen my share of films with a pianist falling over their fingers trying to keep up with the movie. Good music really brings you into the moment, but badly done music, that just ruins the whole thing. So you better believe that when I realized I needed to find myself a music director for Joey Drew Studios I made sure to hire the best. Because you know what the best do? They don’t play along with prewritten sheet music to a silent movie. No. They improvise every time. They watch the film and play as they watch and feel the emotions run through their body and out their fingers onto the keys. They create art with the melody.
And boy oh boy, let me tell you, that’s what Sammy Lawrence does.
I wouldn’t say I was lucky to get him as part of my team, nor that I’m lucky he’s stayed with me all these years, though I’ve been told that in the past and I happily say, “Darn right I am!” when people do say it. But, as I always say, luck had nothing to do with it. It was my research, my ability to understand and appreciate true talent, and of course, my vision that inspired others to want to work for me. After all, I can’t make anyone do anything, even as a boss; they have to want to. That’s why everyone at Joey Drew Studios is such a fan of Bendy and all our creations. If they aren’t, then they need to leave. Just like Henry Stein did. I never feel resentful on the rare occasion this happens, of course, I just feel sad. Not for me—I can always find more talent—but for them. They really will never get another opportunity quite as wonderful as working at the studio, that’s for sure.
Sammy Lawrence was one of my best decisions. Even though it was one I made two years after my original team had been put together. A man of great talent. I knew he was exactly who I needed to lead my Music Department. I hadn’t realized right away when I met him properly on the eve of my thirtieth birthday that I’d seen him before. Only in that first conversation was it revealed he’d worked for the Grand Cinema as a teenager. I remembered him then easily. I’d been so impressed by the quality of the music that I’d hardly noticed the film. I remember watching this young man’s long skinny fingers rush across the keys with such confidence and speed. The music he made felt effortless but what was just as striking was his focus. The way he stared at the screen before him, watching the film as keenly as any of us in the audience. He played as he watched, never needing to look down, his fingers just knew where to go. It was an incredible show and I remember the audience applauding at the end of the film, which didn’t happen all the time. But of course I only had that memory after I met him.
I met Sammy Lawrence quite by accident, at a party. Not a birthday party for yours truly, I’ve never been one really to celebrate the passing of time in that way. At any rate, it was the opening night party for Ira Gershwin’s Girl Crazy and I had been invited along with others who truly appreciated a good show.
Everyone was dressed to the nines, tuxedos on the men, dresses that glittered in the light for the ladies, cigarettes at the end of long holders, crystal tumblers filled with expensive and still illegal alcohol. You would never have known the stock market had crashed one year before, that people were standing in breadlines on the streets, that lives were ruined down there, so many floors down beneath the sparkling society. I, of course, found it yet another fascinating illusion. That we could all pretend life was carrying on full of joy like nothing had happened, which, for those fortunate few, I suppose, was true.
Now, I don’t know how much time you’ve spent around actors, but there is a time at every actor party when enough alcohol has been consumed that their inner desires to be the center of attention can no longer be contained and suddenly someone decides it’s time to start singing. Hopefully, you’re lucky enough there’s at least a piano in the room. I know of nothing quite so painful and tuneless as listening to actors singing a cappella. In this case, with this particular party there was a piano. And there was a man who could actually play said piano.
I think you know who I’m talking about already.
It began with the actors each choosing a song. They fought for the spotlight by pretending they didn’t care. Casually walked up to the piano wearing some extravagant outfit or other, I swear the leading lady’s dress was entirely made of strings of pearls, while making sure to eye down any of their colleagues who might have attempted to stand up. There was a kind of sharing, but an impatience to be the next performer. The audience was an odd one. Those of us who were not performers were indifferent and preferred to continue our conversations. Those who were didn’t really have any interest in listening, just showing how supportive they were.
Don’t get me wrong, I adore actors. They are lovely people who light up a room and can have a shocking level of generosity so long as their egos are being indulged. But it did mean that when Jack stood up to sing, something in the room changed then. The audience went from tolerant to interested.
I’d already been impressed with the piano player that night. He’d been able to play any requested song without needing music for it. He also had a knack for following the performers as they slowed or sped up without any indication they were going to. But when Jack Fain got up something special happened.
“Hey, everyone, I’m Jack!”
“Hi, Jack!” many members of the makeshift audience replied in unison. Jack laughed at that and pointed at them appreciatively. What on earth was going on? I wondered. This sudden enthusiasm and audience participation was truly odd.
“Well, hello there, everyone! I see we’re having a fun party!”
There were whoops and cheers from the very drunk audience; I leaned against the arch by the foyer and watched closely.
“Well you know me and Sammy, we love a fun party!”
“Sammy!” called out one of the supporting actors in a low baritone.
The man at the piano shook his head. He seemed annoyed. I thought it was funny, I didn’t realize that it wasn’t an act. That Sammy was not a fan of attention and definitely didn’t like putting on a show like this.
“For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Jack Fain.” The man tipped his bowler in our direction. I understood now why he was still wearing it even indoors. His whole outfit was a kind of costume in a way. He wasn’t in a tux or a dinner jacket either. Instead he was in dark gray wool trousers with red suspenders, a white button-up shirt beneath an orange vest and brown bow tie. He fit the description of “a character” to a tee. Sammy Lawrence on the other hand was in a neat simple black evening suit and looked totally appropriate for an opening night party. Though I suppose his hair could have been slicked back a bit more, not quite so long and floppy on the top as it was. As it still is.
“And I’d like to sing you a song,” he said, smiling broadly. The audience applauded heartily, and I found myself doing the same. I knew somehow it would be worth the applause. “This one is a little ditty by the two swell fellas before you. Something from the songbook of Lawrence and Fain.”
Sammy took his cue and played out the intro, some chords of a jazzy ragtime-sounding song. Nothing I’d heard before. A complete original. I’ll never forget that song, and in fact find myself to this day still singing the chorus to myself on occasion:
’Cause he’s the devil I know
He’s fun and he’s cheeky
We go out on the town
Sometimes he’s quite sneaky!
He’s picked a pocket or two
Broken hearts on the side
Sure he’ll try to fight you
But hey at least he’s never lied!
Oh sure I’d like to make some more friends
But I’d say it all rather depends …
’Cause I’d rather the devil I know
Than the devil I don’t
On my side.
That was the moment. I have these moments, as you know by now, and this was one of them. That was when I realized my greatest mistake when I’d put the team together. I thought I had been so smart, thought I’d taken Arch’s advice perfectly. I couldn’t figure out why it just wasn’t working even though we were so close.
Music. I needed real music. Real creative talent.
I needed Lawrence and Fain.
“Now that was a song,” I said as Sammy walked over in my direction. He stopped to look at me in that way of his. Always suspicious, always looking for something more. He was a couple years younger than me but seemed like a fellow who had lived several lifetimes already.
“You liked that?” asked Jack, joining us in a wave of energy and sweat. Close up I could see his brow was glistening and his breath was short. It was like he’d just run a race.
“I’d like to talk to you two,” I said, smiling as warmly as I could. I wanted them to know I was a friend. But of course Sammy just stared back at me.
“About what?” he asked curtly.
“Let’s step out onto the terrace so we don’t need to shout at each other over the noise,” I replied.
“Good idea, I could use some air,” said Jack, taking off his bowler hat and fanning himself with it.
Sammy reluctantly nodded. I had no idea then why he was making such a fuss, honestly still don’t know to this day what makes him a grouch, but if being a grouch means beautiful music, I have no problem with that, I’ll tell you.
Outside the air was cooler and fresh. Still warm the way summer nights in New York City are, the air gets trapped down the narrow streets and between the tall buildings. But a penthouse apartment overlooking the park has its advantages, and a breeze played with our hair and settled the nerves.
“I like what you do,” I said.
“Thank you, that’s awful swell of you,” replied Jack. He stretched out his hand. “Jack Fain, lyricist and wit.” I laughed as I shook his hand and he did too. Ol’ Jack always finds his own jokes the most entertaining. He might not tell the best ones, but there’s something about his laugh that’s contagious, so he always gets a good response.
“Joey Drew, owner of Joey Drew Studios,” I replied.
“And what’s a Joey Drew Studios?” asked Sammy, lighting a cigarette from the darkness by the stone wall at the edge of the terrace.
Yes, he said it in that dismissive tone. I didn’t understand why he needed to talk to me like that. I didn’t respect it. I was starting to doubt my own judgment. Did I really want to offer the opportunity of a lifetime to someone so extreme in their indifference?
“Why do I know you?” he asked then. He was looking at me carefully now. Not in the same suspicious manner. He was truly trying to figure out the answer to his question.
“I go to a lot of shows, I’m a man about town,” I replied.
He shook his head. “That’s not it.”
He leaned back on both elbows on the stone wall. Beneath him Fifth Avenue roared and certain death would come to anyone who toppled over the edge down onto it. The man definitely had confidence in that wall. I had a sudden urge to give him a shove. Not push him over, but just to see his reaction. This might sound strange, but I needed to see a human moment from him, I needed to see the man he was hiding from me. That’s the trouble when you’re interested in re-creating the illusion of the world. You want to see the truth of it as much as possible.
“Joey Drew Studios,” he said again, mulling it over. “So like film?”
I nodded. “Sure, like that,” I replied. If he was going to be coy, I would match it. The best way to get people to trust you is to match and mimic their behavior.
“You like movies,” he said, nodding back. Was he imitating me now?
“I do.”
He snapped his fingers and tossed the cigarette over the side of the building. “I know you! You used to come to the Grand almost every day. Sat down near the front, always by yourself.”
I stared at him in shock, and that was when the memories came flooding back. The ones of him playing the piano along with the movies. That was him. That was the same fellow. I knew I knew him from somewhere! I knew my gut instinctively understood his genius.
