“Shall I tell him?” I asked Marlene.
“Go ahead.”
I gave it to him on the chin. “Who cut this picture? A butcher? Where are those wonderful scenes I saw in the gypsy tavern and the bull ring? Why have they been cut to bits?”
“She’s right,” murmured Marlene. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“The cutter said they ran too long,” Mike explained.
“Well, fire him. Get the negative put back together and start all over again. Pay him off and find yourself an artist, not the man who did this.”
“I don’t know if I can do it. I gave him a year’s contract. It’d cost a fortune.”
“If you don’t, it will cost you a great picture.”
“Who could I get?” he begged.
“You’ve got one friend in this town who wants to see you succeed, not fail,” I said, “and that’s Sam Goldwyn. He has saved his own pictures in the cutting room many a time. Go to Sam and let him find you the finest cutter in the business. It’s the only way you can save it. You haven’t got a picture unless you do.”