The Public Eye Page #5

Bernzy already suspects something is amiss, but hides it.

BERNZY:

Sure, that's all right.

YOUNG RINEMAN:

(smiling awkwardly)

Well, then -- goodbye.

He goes out. Bernzy seems to know the same door is going to

open again.

It does. H.R. RINEMAN appears, an athletically vigorous 60

year old.

RINEMAN:

Mr. Bernstein?

INT. RINEMAN'S OFFICE - LATER

Rineman leads Bernzy into his book-lined office: all dark

wood and rich leather.

RINEMAN:

Now does one call you Mr. Bernstein

or Mr. Bernzini? Or is it just

Bernzini?

BERNZY:

I was born Leon Bernstein. But I got

the name 'The Great Bernzini' from

the gals at World-wide, the big photo

agency? They said I had t'be a

magician to get to so many disasters

so fast.

RINEMAN:

That's marvelous.

He shows Bernzy to a chair in front of his desk, speaking as

he takes his own seat, behind it.

RINEMAN:

I know my son spoke to you

optimistically about publishing your

book. That's why he wanted me -- why

I wanted to speak to you rather than

tossing it back into the mail.

Bernzy's eyes narrow almost imperceptibly but with a kind of

anger:
he's suffered this particular humiliation before.

Bernzy's book is on Rineman's desk. It's a "dummy book" -- a

manuscript made up of stiff pieces of paper onto which

photographs, printed on good paper, have been glued, along

with captions.

The book lies open to a photograph of a black man with an

agonized expression, a fire-truck behind him, his face lighted

by the unseen flames of his tenement afire.

RINEMAN:

Of course, from a technical point of

view, this is fine work, fine work.

It's simply that we don't publish

books of this type.

BERNZY:

Listen, Mr. Rineman, please don't

hand me that -- please -- 'cause

everybody knows Rineman & Sons

publishes more photograph books than

anybody else.

RINEMAN:

(ever gracious)

Well, sir, we publish books of

photography. And to my mind, this is

instead a most admirable picture

book about New York. Not an inferior

genre, just different.

BERNZY:

No. You're wrong. This is a book of

photography.

RINEMAN:

If I may explain --

BERNZY:

I know what you mean. Still lifes,

naked women gettin' out of bath-tubs,

fruit on a plate -- it's a photo,

but let's pretend it's a painting.

We now see a row of tasteful framed photos on the wall behind

Rineman, in precisely the style Bernzy describes. They include

a woman getting out of her bath and fruit on a plate.

BERNZY:

I know how to do that, too. I really

do. But let's face it, you publish

enough of them books already.

Everybody does. C'mon, Mr. Rineman:

show those other guys. This is the

book.

Bernzy winks.

Rineman is appalled by Bernzy's boastfulness, but hides it.

RINEMAN:

May I say you're not being fair to

the photographers we do publish --

Dick Arlen, Harold Briley, Val

Armbruster.

BERNZY:

I'm sure they're nice guys, but those

arty-farty shots are easy to get

compared to something like this

(he leans over, points

to the open book,

feature by feature)

-- where you got a big shiny fire

truck in front of you, and a whole

building on fire behind you, so the

light's every which way, and mean-

time, this poor son-of-a-b*tch is

watching his life go up --

RINEMAN:

Really, I don't doubt the difficulties

you must've faced... You're

technically superb.

BERNZY:

Right.

RINEMAN:

(hiding his distaste

again)

But what I see here is a batch of

pictures that's too -- sensational

and too -- vulgar to justify printing

a fine book of photography, which is

an expensive thing to do.

BERNZY:

What's vulgar, exactly? This guy? or

the fire?

RINEMAN:

Since you obviously have great talent,

I'd like to suggest that you apply

it to a subject matter that --

BERNZY:

No -- huh-nh, no.

RINEMAN:

(finally letting his

impatience show)

Please listen, Mr. Bernstein -- !

BERNZY:

Don't you think I heard this advice

before? I just happen to be right

about all this, see? Don't you think

I'd rather be shooting flowers or

beautiful dames than campin' out

with corpses?

RINEMAN:

Maybe you should ask yourself.

Sensationalism has its allure. It's

potent. It can desensitize a man to

the beauty of flowers -- or women.

BERNZY:

What're you, a shrink?

RINEMAN:

Hardly. But the men who do what you

do don't usually feel the need to

rationalize it like you -- much less

be celebrated for it.

BERNZY:

Nobody does what I do.

Bernzy takes up the book as Rineman watches.

He moves to the door, seizes the knob, but pauses.

BERNZY:

I figure your boy really did wanna

publish my book. Tell him I won't

hold this against him when I have my

big retrospective over at the modern

art museum.

RINEMAN:

(his interest piqued,

now)

You're having a show at the Museum

of Modern Art?

BERNZY:

Someday.

RINEMAN:

(a thin smile)

Oh...

(his certitude restored)

If you really disdain the publishing

establishment so, why do you crave

its acceptance?

BERNZY:

Who the hell else is gonna publish a

book?

He slams the door behind him.

CUT TO:

INT. POLICE STATION - NIGHT

A door opens and a dozen flashbulbs blaze as a young HOOD,

handcuffed to a Cop, enters the room.

However, the Hood is covering his face with his unchained

hand, so nobody gets a shot. Several Photographers, Bernzy

not among them, are clustered at the door.

PHOTOGRAPHER 1

Give us a shot, son!

COP:

Clear the way!

PHOTOGRAPHER 2

C'mon, one picture!

The Hood, his face still shielded, kicks blindly in front of

him, clearing the way. He is led toward the booking post.

BERNZY, meantime, is perched on a Sergeant's desk, as the

Sergeant reads over a file. Bernzy watches the commotion

with the young Hood with interest but no urgency.

SERGEANT:

There's two guys called Portifino

with records. But nobody that age or

description.

BERNZY:

No record.

SERGEANT:

Not in New York, anyway.

BERNZY:

(baffled)

Hm. Maybe he is Society League.

As Bernzy gets up, he gives a few cigars to the Sergeant.

BERNZY:

I gotta go take this kid's picture.

The Sergeant scoops the cigars into his desk drawer. He looks

over at the snarling, defiant Hood.

SERGEANT:

I don't think he wants it took.

BERNZY:

(taking up his camera)

Everybody likes to have his picture

took.

Bernzy approaches the Hood, whose handcuffs have been removed

so that he may be fingerprinted. He still covers his face.

BERNZY:

Listen, kid.

HOOD:

F*** off.

COP:

(to the Hood)

Can you write?

The Hood nods.

COP:

Sign this.

The Hood takes the pen and signs the form, still careful to

keep his face concealed.

BERNZY:

You ever heard of The Great Bernzini?

I shot Dutch Schultz, Legs Diamond --

these guys never covered their face

from me.

HOOD:

I said f*** off.

BERNZY:

I get everybody's picture, while

he's alive or after... I ain't met

the guy yet looks better after.

HOOD:

(after a beat)

You that freak, drives around in a

sedan all night?

BERNZY:

That's me.

HOOD:

I heard about you.

BERNZY:

In your line of work, I'm the

photographer to the stars.

HOOD:

Yeah, yeah, I heard of you. Them

other creeps around?

Bernzy looks over to make sure the other Photographers have

given up.

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