I turned to my mother and asked, "Who’s Wallace?" She gave me a strange look. "He’s the former owner of Vitagraph Studios. Now he oversees most of Warner Bros.' theaters in Los Angeles, including ours. How could you forget him? You two had a great conversation last time."

  As we entered the yard, I saw my father sitting on the porch with a man in a pinstripe suit. The man was around 30, with a neatly trimmed mustache and slicked-back hair. He sat with his legs crossed, a smile plastered on his face.

  "Hall, we’ve been friends for years. If there were any other way, I wouldn’t be taking back your theater. You know, last month at the board meeting, the boss said nearly half of the theaters in Los Angeles are losing money. So, they’ve decided to sell most of them to Paramount and take back the rest. Old friend, I’m just following orders. If it weren’t for our friendship, I wouldn’t be coming to you first," Zinneman said, shaking his head and glancing at my father. When he noticed me approaching, he gave me a nod.

  "Amman, don’t give me that. I know all about Warner’s dirty tricks. Those Warner brothers would skin you alive and not even blink. You tell me, I’ve been running this theater for nearly ten years. How much money have I made for you? And now, when you’re in trouble, you come after me? This is just bullying!" my father shouted.

  Zinneman forced a smile. "I know it’s tough, but we have a contract. According to the agreement, the company can reclaim the theater at any time. Of course, Sam, considering you’re both Polish immigrants, they’re offering you 30,000whileothersareonlygetting30,000whileothersareonlygetting20,000. That’s pretty generous, old friend! Anyway, that’s all I have to say. I’ve got other business to attend to. Times are hard for everyone. On the first of July, I’ll come to take back the theater. Until then, all the profits are yours." Zinneman stood up, patted my father on the shoulder, and walked out to his car, driving off in a cloud of dust.

  "Those bastards! They say the theaters are losing money, but half of them in Los Angeles are doing just fine. Warner Bros. has its own problems, and selling off the losing theaters makes sense, but taking back the profitable ones? That’s just kicking the ladder out from under us! Thirty thousand dollars?! I spent ten thousand just renovating the theater this year! And they think thirty thousand is enough to shut me up? Those sons of bitches!" My father stormed into the house, still cursing, while my mother sat in a chair and wept.

  Historically, Warner Bros. had been facing financial troubles since 1924. The four Warner brothers—Jack, Harry, Sam, and Albert—were poor Polish immigrants. Unlike MGM, which had the backing of a major corporation, the Warners had arrived in America with only a few dollars to their names. They had made their early money by selling photos of a dog named Rin Tin Tin to pay their actors. As a result, they were notoriously frugal, pinching every penny. Among the four, Sam Warner was the most influential and the brains behind the operation. To address the financial crisis, he first targeted their theaters, selling off the unprofitable ones to Paramount and reclaiming the profitable ones. This not only provided jobs for those laid off due to downsizing but also funneled the profits directly into their own pockets—a classic case of killing two birds with one stone.

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  While Sam Warner’s strategy did historically alleviate their financial woes, it also left my father bankrupt. Naturally, I couldn’t help but resent the man.

  To escape the oppressive atmosphere at home, I went to find Berg and Gance. Berg’s family lived in the southeast of Burbank, about a half-hour walk away. When I arrived, Berg and Gance were fishing in a river on the farm. Berg had caught several large fish, while Gance’s bucket was empty. When they saw me, they reeled in their lines and excitedly told me about how much fun the wedding had been the day before.

  "Andre, you really missed out. There were so many beautiful girls yesterday. Dancing with them nearly broke my back," Gance said, lying on the grass with a lecherous grin.

  "What’s wrong? You look upset. How’s Bogie?" Berg asked, noticing my dejected expression.

  I told them everything about Bogie’s situation and how Zinneman was taking back the theater. Berg shook his head in sympathy, while Gance seemed almost gleeful. "Well, now you’re in the same boat as me. Don’t lose heart, young man. Life is full of opportunities. Let’s go out and make something happen!"

  Berg shot Gance a disapproving look and asked quietly, "Have you thought about what you’re going to do?"

  "Me? What can I do? I’ll focus on graduating first. After that, at least I won’t be a financial burden on my family anymore," I said, kicking Gance’s empty fish bucket in frustration.

  Berg and Gance fell silent.

  That night, the three of us holed up in my family’s theater and watched movies until dawn. Since my father was in no mood to run the business, the theater was closed, which worked out perfectly for us.

  Berg dragged out reels of film from the storage room and projected them while he and Gance snacked and laughed uproariously.

  But I couldn’t bring myself to enjoy the films. For one, my mood was far from cheerful. But more importantly, as someone who had been exposed to countless cinematic masterpieces, these movies felt like stepping back into the Stone Age.

  All the films were black-and-white silent movies, most around 40 to 50 minutes long, with some even shorter. The majority were cheaply made comedies and Westerns. The comedies relied on slapstick gags like pies to the face, most of which were produced by Sennett and Ince’s Keystone Studios. Sennett believed comedy was all about gags and laughs, and since silent films were the norm, Keystone churned out a ton of these films. While most were of questionable quality, they were wildly popular, with a few gems standing out—particularly the works of Keaton and Chaplin.

  Keaton’s comedies were known as "slapstick" because of his frequent use of long, stick-like props. His 1922 film Cops had cemented his place in Hollywood and earned him Sennett’s admiration. His 1924 releases, The Navigator and Sherlock Jr., were also box office hits, making him a cash cow for Keystone. But to me, his performances felt forced, and the gags that had Berg and Gance rolling on the floor seemed outdated.

  Chaplin’s films, on the other hand, offered some solace. Since his 1914 debut in Mabel’s Strange Predicament, Chaplin had portrayed the Tramp—a kind-hearted vagabond who resonated deeply with audiences. Keystone capitalized on his popularity, releasing a string of Chaplin-led films in 1915, including The Tramp, Work, and The Bank, all of which were box office smashes and catapulted Chaplin to stardom, eclipsing even Keaton.

  As I watched these films, a thought struck me: maybe I could do something about this.