label or cork; and when the first was gone a second appeared. All this accompanied by small talk— business was never discussed with food—until the coffee arrived. Then Altmann said “Let me lay the situation out for you as it stands today.”
“Good,” Casson said, taking yet another of Altmann’s cigarettes.
“The major difference is, they’re going to set up a committee called a Filmprüfstelle, Film Control Board, that will answer to Goebbels’s people in the Propagandastaffel up in the Hotel Majestic. Now UFA-CONTINENTAL is going to have to deal with them, I would not try to tell you otherwise, and they are who they are, enough said. On the other hand, they have to deal with Continental, and it’s not at all clear who’s the bigger dog in this yard. Our capitalization has increased to ten million reichsmarks—two hundred million francs. With the cost of making a film in France averaging out to about three and a half million francs, you can see what’s going to happen. Certainly there will be quite a lot of waltzing—powdered boobs in ball gowns and all the rest of it, there’s always that, but they can’t have ten million reichsmarks’ worth even if that’s what they think they want. We’ve acquired thirty-nine movie theatres, and we have the laboratories and the processing—once you get to that stage there must be more than Old Vienna, and that’s going to come from independent producers and directors. Do you see?”
Casson nodded. He saw. The thirty-nine theatres came in large part from the confiscation of property belonging to Siritsky and Haik, Jewish film exhibitors.
“So when I say,” Altmann continued, “that the Nazis have to deal with Continental, I mean it. It’s felt in Berlin that if French culture is destroyed then we’ve failed to resolve the difficulties between us. This is not Poland, this is one of the greatest cultures the world has ever produced—Hitler himself dares not claim otherwise.” He drank a sip of coffee, then another.
“Now look,” he said, voice lower. “We’re not sure ourselves exactly what they’re going to let us do. Obviously a celebration of the French victory in 1918 won’t work at the Control Board, but a hymn to Teutonic motherhood won’t work at Continental. Between those extremes, if you and I are going to work together, is where we’ll work.”
“I won’t make Nazi propaganda,” Casson said.
“Don’t. See if I care.” Altmann shrugged. “Casson, you couldn’t if you wanted to, all right? Only a certain breed of swine can do that— German swine or French swine. Perhaps you know that a German film, The Jew Süss, has broken box-office records for the year in Lyons, Toulouse, and, of course, Vichy.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“It’s true. But, thank God, Paris isn’t Lyons or Toulouse.”
“No.”
“Well?”
“It’s a lot to think about,” Casson said.
“You know Leveque?”
“Of course. The Emissary. ”
“Raoul Mies?”
“Yes.”
“They’ve both signed to do projects—no details, but we’re working on it.”
Casson looked out the window. The Seine was high in its banks, as it always was in autumn, and gray. It was going to rain, the weeds on the river bank bent over in the wind. Life goes on, he thought. “I don’t know,” he said quietly.
“Good,” Altmann said. “An honest answer.” He leaned closer to Casson. “I have to get up every morning and go to an office, like everybody else. And I don’t want to work with every greasy little pimp who wants to be in movies. I want my day to be as good as it can—but I’m flesh and blood, Casson, just like you, and I’ll do what I have to do. Just like you.”
Casson nodded. Now they’d both been honest. Altmann started to pour the last of the wine, then put the bottle down and signaled the patron. “What do you have for us—something good.”
The patron thought a moment. “Cognac de Champagne?”
“Yes,” Altmann said. “Two, then
“Good,” Casson said, taking yet another of Altmann’s cigarettes.
“The major difference is, they’re going to set up a committee called a Filmprüfstelle, Film Control Board, that will answer to Goebbels’s people in the Propagandastaffel up in the Hotel Majestic. Now UFA-CONTINENTAL is going to have to deal with them, I would not try to tell you otherwise, and they are who they are, enough said. On the other hand, they have to deal with Continental, and it’s not at all clear who’s the bigger dog in this yard. Our capitalization has increased to ten million reichsmarks—two hundred million francs. With the cost of making a film in France averaging out to about three and a half million francs, you can see what’s going to happen. Certainly there will be quite a lot of waltzing—powdered boobs in ball gowns and all the rest of it, there’s always that, but they can’t have ten million reichsmarks’ worth even if that’s what they think they want. We’ve acquired thirty-nine movie theatres, and we have the laboratories and the processing—once you get to that stage there must be more than Old Vienna, and that’s going to come from independent producers and directors. Do you see?”
Casson nodded. He saw. The thirty-nine theatres came in large part from the confiscation of property belonging to Siritsky and Haik, Jewish film exhibitors.
“So when I say,” Altmann continued, “that the Nazis have to deal with Continental, I mean it. It’s felt in Berlin that if French culture is destroyed then we’ve failed to resolve the difficulties between us. This is not Poland, this is one of the greatest cultures the world has ever produced—Hitler himself dares not claim otherwise.” He drank a sip of coffee, then another.
“Now look,” he said, voice lower. “We’re not sure ourselves exactly what they’re going to let us do. Obviously a celebration of the French victory in 1918 won’t work at the Control Board, but a hymn to Teutonic motherhood won’t work at Continental. Between those extremes, if you and I are going to work together, is where we’ll work.”
“I won’t make Nazi propaganda,” Casson said.
“Don’t. See if I care.” Altmann shrugged. “Casson, you couldn’t if you wanted to, all right? Only a certain breed of swine can do that— German swine or French swine. Perhaps you know that a German film, The Jew Süss, has broken box-office records for the year in Lyons, Toulouse, and, of course, Vichy.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“It’s true. But, thank God, Paris isn’t Lyons or Toulouse.”
“No.”
“Well?”
“It’s a lot to think about,” Casson said.
“You know Leveque?”
“Of course. The Emissary. ”
“Raoul Mies?”
“Yes.”
“They’ve both signed to do projects—no details, but we’re working on it.”
Casson looked out the window. The Seine was high in its banks, as it always was in autumn, and gray. It was going to rain, the weeds on the river bank bent over in the wind. Life goes on, he thought. “I don’t know,” he said quietly.
“Good,” Altmann said. “An honest answer.” He leaned closer to Casson. “I have to get up every morning and go to an office, like everybody else. And I don’t want to work with every greasy little pimp who wants to be in movies. I want my day to be as good as it can—but I’m flesh and blood, Casson, just like you, and I’ll do what I have to do. Just like you.”
Casson nodded. Now they’d both been honest. Altmann started to pour the last of the wine, then put the bottle down and signaled the patron. “What do you have for us—something good.”
The patron thought a moment. “Cognac de Champagne?”
“Yes,” Altmann said. “Two, then
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