In the days that follow, Jones's mood seems to perk up.
She asks Bette to read the newspaper to her, take pictures of the park, and even turn the glass chamber so she could bask in the sun.
Jones: In winter, we'd set the snow up into different piles, pick a few, and sprinkle sugar on them.
Sometimes, they just talk like old friends.
Jones: If we were lucky, we'd get a sweet one. If not, we might end up eating sawdust.
Bette: You played games like that as a kid?
Jones: Silly girl.
Jones lets out a weak chuckle.
Jones: Before I became famous, I was just a little country girl.
Bette: Hm?
Bette feels a twinge of something unfamiliar.
Jones: What's happening?
Bette shakes her head.
Bette: When I was little, I used to sneak into the cinema. It was crowded, but at least it was warm.
Bette: I loved watching movies. They let me forget the bad things in real life for a while ...
Bette: I felt like ... they were saving my numb little heart.
Bette: That's why I wanted to make movies—because I wanted to be one of those people.
Jones: Hmm ...
Jones watches Bette, a hint of resignation on her face.
Jones: Then, we need to make a movie.
Bette: Now?
Jones: We have a camera, don't we? Just letting it sit there is a waste.
Bette: What are we filming?
Jones smiles.
Jones: You.
Jones: Follow Bette. Medium shot. Upper body.
At Jones's command, the insect-like base carrying the camera moves toward Bette, angling the lens at her.
The device has been modified to respond to her commands.
Even confined to the glass chamber, Jones can still direct the shots she wants.
Bette: What's there to film about me?
Bette looks down with a red face at the camera as it tracks her. It feels so much different from when she had been a stunt double—the lens is capturing the real her now, and she doesn't handle it well.
Jones: Better than filming me in this state.
Jones shrugs.
Jones: Now, don't just stand there staring at it. Do your thing.
Bette: My thing?
Jones: You know ... something. Why not read me the newspaper?
Bette nods, grabs the paper, and sits beside Jones.
She begins reading, stumbling at first over simple words. But slowly she finds herself focusing on the text, not the camera, and begins to relax.
Jones: That's it. A good actor forgets the camera is even there.
Bette: Camera?!
She has indeed forgotten it, and all her nerves return as soon as she looks back at it, her face turning a new and brighter red.
Jones: Don't worry. You'll get used to it.
From then on, whenever Bette enters Jones's room, the camera soon turns to meet her.
And as per Jones's request, Bette edits their clips every night.
"Click."
In the dim red room, the sound of scissors cuts through a busy silence as Bette trims another frame of film.
Bette: And ... this frame next ...
She draws a line on the back of the film with a pencil, then carefully snips it out with scissors.
Setting the film aside, she draws large, bold letters on a piece of paper.
Bette: "Apple Core."
Bette had peeled an apple for Jones, only to be ruthlessly teased for her knife skills.
Bette: "Pharaoh's Night."
A horror-style short Jones had asked Bette to shoot, where Jones, wrapped head to toe in bandages, bolted upright in bed—
Only for the shot to reveal Bette's fake mustache stuck under her nose.
The last clip is of Bette laughing so hard the whole frame trembles, the light shifting wildly, like ink dispersing in a glass of water.
Bette: This is what movies should be ... magical vessels to preserve our best moments forever ...
She carefully lifts the film with tweezers, sorting them into separate categories.
Bette: Jones will recover and be discharged soon.
Bette: I'll find a way to help her accept what happened with the "Storm."
Bette's eyes rest overlong on the script on the nightstand—copied out laboriously by hand and from memory. Having used her legs as a writing desk for so long, the pages have developed a slight curve.
Bette: Then we'll finish the movie.
It is late, and the room is dark except for the intermittent flickering of machine lights.
Laura: Have you decided?
Jones: Yes.
The insect-like camera base sits motionless, slumped over from lack of instructions.
Jones: I don't need money. I just need you to give me one thing.
Laura: What?
Jones parts her lips, uttering something far from pleasant.
Laura: Hah! There are better substitutes for that.
Jones: Suit yourself.
The door shuts behind the nurse as she leaves.
