A film expert and her brother are lured to a secluded mansion with the promise of receiving a rare print of a long-lost film. Waiting for them is a deadly secret that someone there will kill to protect.
They found Teague in his room, looking much as he had earlier. Still, his coughing seemed to be under control and even his color was slightly better. Hannah was seated next to him, checking the levels on his oxygen machine when Kevin and Michelle entered.
"Everything looks good," she said.
"Thank you, my dear. Would you mind giving me a moment alone with my guests?"
Hannah gave Kevin and Michelle a terce once over, nodded, and left the room.
Once she was gone, Teague motioned to the two empty chairs and said, "Please, have a seat."
They did so, and once again the Chase kids were opposite a onetime movie mogul, waiting to see what he had to say regarding the fate of the only known copy of the legendary Albert Hildebrand's never before seen film.
To Michelle, Teague said, "You must be anxious, wondering what my decision will be."
Michelle nodded. "I thought that you might be considering other offers. A find like this, I'm surprised you don't have people beating down your door to get to it."
"It's true," Teague admitted. "I have made several inquiries, however discretely, into other channels. I'm sure I don't have tell you how enticing an offer like this would appear to some."
Teague was speaking to the undeniable staying power of the name Albert Hildebrand. Many filmmakers may have been great in their time, only to have their names fade in the memories of the collective public. But Hildebrand's name was just as recognizable now as it had been at the height of this living career. That's because his work seemed to cut across lines, appealing to more than just fans of the cinema. His works were masterful pieces of art, appealing to so many, enduring the test of time as few often do. Not only film buffs followed him; but psychologists, criminologists, sociologists, and even satirists. Even those who claimed not to like his films would be hard pressed not to see the uniqueness of this situation: a film by a popular auteur shelved in its day for being too disturbing, suddenly surfaces in the home of reclusive former studio executive. The fact that Teague had managed to keep all of this out of the press was damn near miraculous.
"I chose to bring you here," Teague continued, "because I believe in the professionalism and sincerity of your organization. But before I agree to let you take it, I need to know, I need to be sure, that you will be able to guarantee me that this film will survive intact, that all care will be taken to preserve it in its original form."
Michelle stared the old man down for a moment, and then answered the best way she knew how. "I'm sorry, Mr. Teague. But I can't guarantee that."
Kevin couldn't believe his own ears. Did his sister really just say that?
Teague regarded her first with confusion; then his eyes sank to a leer of mild contempt. "Would you mind explaining that?" he asked, clearly caught off guard.
"Certainly," Michelle agreed. "You want me to guarantee that once this film leaves your possession that it will survive unscathed, unaltered. I simply can't promise you that. No one can. I'll give you example. The Edison Kinetophone was essentially a box that ran film through it at 1/7000 of a second and could be viewed about four thousand times before the film finally wore out and was no longer viewable. Or how about the cinematograph, which had an even longer exposure time of 2/45 of a second? The film could only survive passage through the apparatus three hundred times before breaking down. My point is, film is ephemeral. Cinema, ever since its inception, is the art of moving picture destruction."
Michelle paused, giving this a moment to sink in. Kevin sat dumfounded and silent. Teague gave her a silent gesture, urging her to continue.
"Cinema is not an object of history. It's a tool of now. Each time it is projected, it is introduced to a plethora of environmental stimuli: heat, humidity, the possibility of tears and scratches. All of these things contribute to its eventual destruction. Every time its shown, every time it's viewed by either an audience or an individual it becomes something different than what it was before, a different screen it's shown on, a different color sharpness or sound amplification. Just my tertiary examination of reel one earlier today changed it in ways that can never be reversed. The main goal of any preservation project is not to maintain it in its original form but a near impossible attempt to stabilize something that is inherently subjected to endless mutation and inevitable destruction. If you want me to promise you that I won't simply chop it up and run it through a digital matrix so it can be manipulated in a hundred different ways, I can do that. If you want me to promise that the negative will be stored in conditions similar to what you have here, I can do that. If you want me to promise that people will be able to see and appreciate this film for years to come; I can pretty much do that too. But I can't promise you that it won't eventually wear, decay, and one day disappear. No one can."
Michelle let it end at that.
Teague sat silent, thinking.
Kevin took all this in with a kind of nervous energy usually reserved for people awaiting test results from their doctor. He knew perfectly well that his sister's candor could have only one of two results. It would either endear her to the man or blow her chances of leaving with the film right out of the water.
They both sat silently while the old man deliberated.
Finally, Teague looked up, an expression of decisive action etched over his age-beaten face. "I've made my decision," he said. "I want you have it."
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