The front page of the Los Angeles Times, dated January 30, 1928, smelled of fresh ink and ambition.
Across the top, in bold 24-point type, the headline declared:
HOLLYWOOD TECHNOLOGY ALLIANCE: THREE PARTIES REACH HISTORIC SETTLEMENT
Beneath it, in elegant Didot italics, the subtitle read:
"MGM, Pioneer Optics, and Technicolor Jointly Establish New Color Film Standards."
The layout followed the classic three-column style, the center dominated by a dramatic photograph from the signing ceremony.
Under the grand Bohemian crystal chandelier of the Westin Hotel ballroom, its thousands of facets scattering light like diamonds, three men stood shoulder to shoulder:
Louis B. Mayer, his diamond cufflinks flashing; Henry James Hill, spectacles glinting; and Herbert Kalmus, Technicolor's austere founder, his gold-plated fountain pen poised mid-signature.
The camera flashbulbs erupted like lightning across the ballroom, catching every reflection of power and wealth.
The article began:
"At 9:05 last night, as the final gilded agreement was sealed with wax, the two-month-long color film patent war reached its conclusion."
A copy of the agreement, obtained through confidential channels, revealed its terms:
• Technicolor would withdraw fifteen ongoing patent lawsuits against Pioneer Optics, retaining only three core patents for its two-color process, notably U.S. Patent No. 1,548,922.
• Pioneer Optics would open its Three-Color Band technology to MGM, licensed until December 31, 1933, applicable to both 35mm and 70mm film formats.
• The three companies would jointly form the American United Distribution Network, focusing on nationwide domestic film releases.
In exchange, MGM agreed to divest a 2% equity stake in three flagship theaters, including the famed Hollywood Egyptian Theatre, built in 1922.
Meanwhile, Pioneer Optics would become a founding member of the International Film Technology Association, headquartered at the "Film Palace," 6000 Sunset Boulevard.
In the "Special Observation" column, industry veteran William Randolph Hearst wrote with his signature sharpness:
"A curious twist of timing: 120 minutes before the signing, the Federal Seventh Circuit Court unexpectedly confirmed the early enforcement of Pioneer Optics' patents. On the same evening, Germany's Zeiss announced a 20% price cut for its T-coating lenses—the very coating technology specified in Appendix C, Article 12 of the new alliance."
He continued:
"Adding to the domino effect, Eastman Kodak's headquarters in Rochester issued a statement ending the 42-day technical supply freeze affecting Vanguard Optics, a Pioneer subsidiary. Effective immediately, the supply of all specialized emulsions will resume."
The morning of January 31, 1928, dawned pale and clear over Los Angeles.
On the 27th floor of the Wrigley Building, Shane Cassidy stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, a cup of steaming black coffee in his hand.
Outside, the city stretched beneath him: freight trains hissed white steam at Union Station, the rising sun lit the Hollywoodland sign on the distant hills, and the haze of early industry shimmered like smoke from a forge.
The office door opened with a soft click.
Reinhardt Krause, once a rising genius from the Swiss Federal Institute of Technology, now Pioneer's Chief Technical Officer, entered with a stack of telegrams in hand. His energy had returned—his posture straight, his face alive again.
"Shane, we did it," he said breathlessly. "Letters of intent from New York, London, and Berlin. Citibank, Barclays, and Deutsche Bank—all want in."
He handed over the telegrams, their embossed paper still warm from the telegraph office.
Shane turned, the light catching in his grey-blue eyes. "No, Reinhardt," he said softly. "This isn't the end. It's the beginning."
He spread a large map of the United States across the mahogany desk. Red and blue pencil marks traced rail routes, port cities, and key industrial zones.
"We'll do three things within six months," he said, tapping the desk.
"First—triple our production lines.
Second—establish offices in Chicago and New York.
And third—reach out to independent theater chains being squeezed by the big five studios. They need us more than MGM does."
Krause frowned slightly. "But expanding production means more silver nitrate, and prices are soaring."
Shane opened a drawer and pulled out a thick kraft envelope, untying the string closure. A check bearing the Morgan & Company crest slid out. The figure printed on it made Krause inhale sharply.
"How on earth did you—"
"Because," Shane said, unfolding a second document, "I showed them this."
It was a three-year projection of Pioneer's revenue and licensing value, annotated in precise handwriting.
"Wall Street doesn't gamble on dreams," he said. "It invests in exits. I gave them one."
The desk phone rang sharply. Shane lifted the receiver. Through the static hum of the transatlantic cable came a crisp British accent:
"Mr. Cassidy, this is J. D. Williams from Gaumont British Pictures. We're prepared to offer equity in the Leicester Square Theatre in exchange for exclusive European premiere rights to your Three-Color Band process."
"Understood," Shane replied. "Draft your offer in writing. You'll have my response by wire before morning."
He replaced the receiver and turned back to the window, his gaze following the faint snow line along the San Gabriel Mountains.
"Book three sleeper berths on the 20th Century Limited," he said. "We're heading east."
He pressed the small brass bell on his desk. Its crisp ring resonated in the pipes above, activating the vacuum speaking tube.
"Margaret," he said into the polished brass mouthpiece, "secure a Class A compartment on the next 20th Century Limited. Include a Pullman refrigerated baggage car."
Her voice came back through the faint static: "Shall I alert the Rochester office to prepare for reception, sir?"
Shane opened a small cigar box, revealing a telegraph code sheet stamped KODAK – PRIVATE LINE USE ONLY.
He traced one red-circled formula with his fingertip. "Send a Class 3 encrypted telegram through Western Union," he said, then turned to Krause. "Reinhardt, are we holding the ethyl substitution between 2.7 and 3.2?"
Krause flipped open his logbook. "Margin of error is under 0.05—just outside Eastman's patent range."
"Good." Shane nodded. "Add this to the remarks: 'For George Eastman's eyes only,' using his private code."
The valve clicked shut. The hum of the speaking tube faded.
Outside, Los Angeles pulsed with new life—the first dawn of a film industry reborn in color.