Part 24 (1/2)

”Hah.”

”Not almost twenty?”

”You look like you drew that beard on,” she said, and tapped the eraser of her pencil against his jawline, then back onto her order pad. ”What'll you have?” she asked.

THE CHALLENGE OF THE TRYOUT BOOK was to move a cartoon character from one pose to another. In the first drawing, Donald Duck stood on a pitcher's mound. In the second, he watched a fly ball soar above his head. There might need to be as many as eight drawings in between, and in fact, the position for which Henry was applying was known as in-betweener. In-betweeners were considered animators, but just barely. They didn't invent characters or create backgrounds or come up with story points or even bits of business. Their job was merely to fill in: Donald eyes the hitter, then looks over his left shoulder. Donald raises his right leg, then lowers it. Donald torques his body, then releases the ball. Point A to Point B, Point B to Point C. Basic. An in-betweener's job would put Henry on the bottom of the ladder-just above the lowly inkers and painters who were known as ”the girls.”

Henry understood from the moment he picked up his pencil that he would have no problem with this. It took him only till dessert-a slice of warm apple pie with a scoop of vanilla ice cream-to decide on his strategy, and by the time the waitress brought him the check, he had made the first of his sketches and learned that her name was Cindy. Two hours later, he was back in Morrow's office, basking in Morrow's surprise at his speed; watching, this time with both pride and terror, as the pages of his work were turned.

”Natural-born Duck Man,” Morrow said.

”I'm going to hope that's a good thing,” Henry said.

Morrow smiled. ”Well, you've got your tryout,” he said-and for a moment, Henry thought he could almost see those words, soaring around the ceiling, not unlike a ribbon of Disney bluebirds.

HENRY FOUND A ROOM in a hotel apartment complex called the Tuxedo. It was located on the improbably named South Sparkle Street, which was ten long blocks from the studio. By bicycle, it took him fifteen minutes.

The Tuxedo had stucco walls, both inside and out, a number of large potted palm trees drooping slightly in the entryway, a pool that seemed never to be used or skimmed, and a faint but constant odor of raw fish. Henry's apartment was a poorly lighted studio, a box just thirty feet by thirty feet. It had a full-size bed, a desk chair, a desk, a bureau, and a kitchenette in which every appliance was at most half its customary size. There was one large and terrible landscape painting above the bed, which Henry took down and put at the back of the closet. Even with the bare walls, the dim light, and the briny smell, Henry considered it by far the best place he had ever lived.

Over that first weekend, he shaved his beard, bought ties and short-sleeved, b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rts, and the first pots, pans, dishes, towels, and sheets he'd ever gotten to choose for himself.

WORK HAD BEGUN ON Mary Poppins Mary Poppins long before Henry arrived at Disney, so there was already the bustle and flow of a studio in full swing. Henry loved the way people were always rus.h.i.+ng around with items that, juxtaposed in any other context, would have seemed totally perplexing: a cage full of rabbits, a rolling shelf of cymbals and drums, ballet skirts, large sheets of tin, a golf shoe. It was a world in which it seemed that the real purpose of all things was to be transformed into other things. long before Henry arrived at Disney, so there was already the bustle and flow of a studio in full swing. Henry loved the way people were always rus.h.i.+ng around with items that, juxtaposed in any other context, would have seemed totally perplexing: a cage full of rabbits, a rolling shelf of cymbals and drums, ballet skirts, large sheets of tin, a golf shoe. It was a world in which it seemed that the real purpose of all things was to be transformed into other things.

The live action for Mary Poppins Mary Poppins was being filmed on every one of the studio's soundstages. The animation, as usual, was being done on the main floor of the Animation Building, a three-story, double-H-shaped mini-factory that could hold up to nine hundred artists at a time. was being filmed on every one of the studio's soundstages. The animation, as usual, was being done on the main floor of the Animation Building, a three-story, double-H-shaped mini-factory that could hold up to nine hundred artists at a time.

The more senior the animator, the closer he sat to a north-facing window and thus to the best available light. The room to which Henry was a.s.signed was a large bullpen and had virtually no natural light at all. But every man had his own desk, complete with a strong lamp, a large wooden drawing board, and a mirror in which to pose the expressions that he was trying to capture. It was not unusual to walk into the room and encounter a row of mirrored faces trying out sadness, levity, shock, awe, confusion, rage: as distinctive and outlandish as a row of Snow White's dwarfs.

There were nine other men with Henry in this bullpen, and when they were not feigning cartoon emotions, they were trying to conceal their real ones. Some of them had professional experience; others had degrees from three-dimensional art schools; all of them wanted the job, and though they'd been told that in theory all of them might be hired, they understood how unlikely that was. They tried, despite this, to project a sense of calm. Much had been made to them, even on the first day, about the studio's spirit of collaboration, about how the Old Man couldn't stand petty politics and had always insisted the artists learn from one another. Henry figured there would be time for happy collaboration later. For now, even if quietly, he sought every advantage.

On his third evening of the tryout, for example, Henry decided to attend the weekly drawing cla.s.s taught by a Disney veteran named Mark Harburg. The cla.s.ses were three hours long and were open to all current animators and would-be in-betweeners. They were held in a vast, barnlike room, where easels, huge rolls of paper, and several alarming human skeletons stood in shadow around the periphery, and a model-waiting for the cla.s.s to begin-stood on a raised, well-lighted platform in the middle, wearing nothing but a man's cardigan. Artists' benches, each made of smooth wood, formed a large square around her. Henry scanned the room and tried not to stare at the model for fear of seeming unprofessional. None of the other would-be in-betweeners had come. But he noticed a sort of swagger as the other men took their places; they came into the studio joking loudly, and they swung their legs over the benches, mounting them as if they were steeds.

”Five-minute poses,” Harburg said. ”This is Annie. Pencil or charcoal. Go.”

Annie took the cardigan off and tossed it to Harburg. She had a pale, thin, but muscular body whose only apparent imperfection was a disparity in the size of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She was young, with short, fine auburn hair; blank, gray eyes; and an eerie, Sphinx-like face. Neither shy nor proud, she struck her first pose, putting her left hand on her left shoulder and her right hand on her right hip. Henry spent the first thirty seconds of the pose just trying to fight the enthusiastic chaos of longing that she had provoked in him. He tried to concentrate on her eyes for a moment, and then was fl.u.s.tered to realize that the artists on either side of him were drawing quick sketches of her body, ignoring her face completely.

Harburg, meanwhile, walked slowly around the benches, leaning in over one man's shoulder to point out something on his pad. His threatened approach only made Henry more nervous. But then Harburg looked at his watch.

”Next pose,” he said, and Henry was relieved to turn to a fresh page.

Annie twisted her torso this time, as if she had just been startled by something behind her. Henry sketched. Four lines. Five. The arc of her back. Henry knew he could draw-as long as someone told him what to draw-and here was the a.s.signment: Draw this woman; make her real. She bent her right knee. There was a dimple on her backside, where the b.u.t.tock met the thigh. Henry sketched, and the familiar habit took over: the habit of putting one line after another, adding a shadow, shaping a curve, bringing this thing into being; there was the compulsion, once it was started, to finish-and this kept him from feeling intimidated by the other artists. He sketched. She bent over. He sketched. She reached up. It was apparent from this pose that she had a scar just under her left breast; it was a dime-size indentation that even at this distance seemed to radiate pain.

”Hey, Annie,” one of the guys said. ”Is that new?”

”No,” she said, not changing her expression.

”How'd you get it?”

”Next pose,” Harburg said.

Henry thought she would conceal the scar with her next pose, but she merely reached to her other side.

”Annie?”

”None of your business,” she said, but sounded more playful than angry when she said it.

”I've got a scar like that,” another man said. ”I got it when I fell off Mr. Toad's Wild Ride.”

Everybody laughed.

”I've got st.i.tches on my arm,” another man said.

”From what?”

”Broke it when I was a kid.”

They went around the room, talking about their scars and imperfections, and all the while they looked up at Annie, then down at their drawings; up at Annie, then back down, as if they were following a vertical game of tennis.

By the time Harburg came around again, Henry had conquered his nervousness and desire, and he was solely bent on getting the lines right.

Harburg stood behind Henry's bench for a moment and watched him sketch.

”Too accurate,” he finally said.

”What?”

”You're being too literal,” Harburg said. ”That looks exactly like her.”

”I thought that was the point.”

”I don't want you to copy her. I want you to extract the point of her. Come away with something you could give to Goofy. Or Donald. Do you see what I mean?”

Henry nodded.

”You have no idea what I mean,” Harburg said.

”You want a caricature,” Henry said.

”I want an essence,” Harburg said. ”What you're trying to draw here is the world going by.”

”Going by,” Henry repeated.

”Annie,” Harburg said, without looking at her.

”Yes?”

”One-minute poses.”

”One minute!” Henry said.