“And what?” It’s meant to come out aggressive, but somehow it gets tangled up in @’s perfume and ends up low and forced. “Help you and Sneaky Pete instead?”
“Let’s not worry about Sneaky Pete,” @ says. She is leaning in to me, her white hair falling around her face, filling my world. “Let’s just worry about you ...”
“Wait,” I say, and that’s not aggressive at all. That’s just a croak.
“And me,” @ says, her hand snaking around the back of my head. Her lips are slightly parted, leaning in to mine.
I hesitate, but it’s just for a second. To be honest, it’s not a Should-I-or-shouldn‘t-I. It’s just a Yes-I-think-I’m-going-to.
@’s fingers release her top shirt button and move down to the next. “If you want,” she says, her breath coming a little fast, “you can call me 6.”
The Partnership
no
“Get out. »
Her breath catches in her throat. I see it happen. “What?”
“You heard me.” I push her hand away from my face. “Get out of my office.”
“Scat,” @ says, “wait. I’m sorry. Okay?”
“Save it,” I say. I push away from the desk and stand up so I can point to the door with a little more authority.
“You’re making a mistake. You don’t—”
“No, I almost made a mistake,” I say.
@ stares at me for a moment. Then she slowly rises from the desk, open hostility spreading across her face. Suddenly I’m not finding her nearly as attractive. “You have no idea how bad your position is.” There is real venom in her voice. “He is going to destroy you.”
“Sneaky Pete?” I try to act like I don’t care. “I doubt—”
“He will do anything to beat you,” @ says. “He will do anything. Do you understand?”
“Just get out.”
“You’ve already lost,” @ says, “and you don’t even know it.”
“Get out,” I say, and now my voice even scares me. @ wheels and strides out, slamming the door behind her. I watch her through the blinds until she’s disappeared down the hallway to the elevators, then sink back into my chair.
When I’m sure it’s safe, I exhale.
scat sleeps on it
As soon as I’m confident of avoiding @, I leave Coke and catch a cab back to Synergy. I knock and wait expectantly, rubbing my hands against the night’s chill, and in the few seconds before 6 opens the door, I go over exactly how I’m going to tell her about this.
But 6 doesn’t open the door. Oh so gradually, it dawns on me that 6 isn’t home. “No way,” I say. “Oh, no way.”
I search around the building for a while, looking for a way to break in, but only succeed in attracting quick, scared glances from passersby. So I guess I should now get a cab to a nice hotel for the night and meet 6 tomorrow morning. This makes a lot of sense: a hell of a lot more than sleeping on the streets of central Venice. But I don’t do it: I don’t want to risk missing 6. So I stuff my wallet through the mail slot, curl up in the doorway, and try to look derelict.
Despite the cold and the fact that I’ve been awake for something like five hours today, I get drowsy pretty quickly. I’m looking up at the streetlights and wondering, for some reason, how many shopping days there are until Christmas, and the next thing I know, it’s morning and 6 is prodding me with her foot.
caffeine
“Here,” 6 says, handing me a coffee. I take it and start slurping gratefully. “You look terrible.”
“Cold,” I gasp between sips. “Dirty. Hungry.”
6 settles into her Captain Kirk, smoothing her black pants. It abruptly occurs to me that I’ve never seen 6 slop around in old clothes: I can’t even imagine her in a tracksuit.
“I came around last night. You weren’t home.” I take a long slurp. “Where were you?”
“I do have a life of my own,” 6 says.
“Oh.” I think for a second. “Were you at Tina’s?”
6 frowns irritably, so I know I’m right. “I’m going to bring her on set next week, to help us out. Where were you?”
“Ah.” The coffee is working wonders: I feel stronger already. “Well, that’s something I need to talk to you about.”
the slipup
“Son of a bitch,” 6 says. She picks up a pen and starts tapping it fast against the desk. “That son of a bitch.”
“@?” I ask, wondering if 6 is engaging in a little non-gender-specific wordplay.
6 sniffs. “@’s a pawn. Trust me, this is all Sneaky Pete.”
“Oh.”
“She said, ‘You don’t know how bad your position is’? That we’d already lost but didn’t know it?”
“That’s pretty much it.”
“Son of a bitch,” 6 says again.
“I mean, I assume she was just blowing smoke. Trying to scare us.”
“I don’t think so,” 6 says. “No, we’ve missed something. Something big.”
I put down the coffee. “What?”
“I don’t know,” she says, her jaw tightening. “We’ve started shooting the new scenes, and we’ll get them done inside a month. We had a bad start with the committee, but we’ll get back on track. I’ve reviewed the budgets. I’ve reviewed the schedule.” She looks up. “Are the post-production people ready for us?”
“Uh,” I say. I clear my throat. “Actually, I haven’t got around to talking to them yet.”
6’s razor eyebrows descend.
“Monday,” I promise. “First thing Monday, I’ll talk to them.”
“Scat,” 6 says grimly, “we can’t afford slipups. If post-production needs more than a month, we’re in real trouble. Talk to them.”
“Got it,” I say, trying to inject a note of reliability into my voice.
“There’s a committee review meeting tomorrow. I’ll be on set, but you have to go. Check the post-production with them. And double-check our schedule.”
“Right,” I say. “Will do.”
6 stares at the desk. “I don’t like this.”
a scare
6 catches a cab at five to be on the lot early, but that’s just a little too extreme for me and I stumble out of bed around seven. According to 6’s note, the committee meeting is at one, so I’ve got the morning to spend at the post-production house. I have a quick breakfast, get lured into a slow coffee and an even slower shower, then grab a cab over to West LA and Visuality.
It’s nestled among a coven of computer firms, and the first time I walk into an Apple dealership by mistake. When I work out the right entrance, I find myself face-to-face with a kid younger than myself, flipping through a copy of Wired. He is wearing horn-rimmed glasses. “Can I help you?”
“I’m Scat,” I say. “From Coke.”
“Yeah?” the kid says.
“Yes,” I say.
I wait, but I don’t appear to have galvanized any action on his part. I try to be a little blunter. “I’m in charge of Backlash.”
“Oh!” His eyes widen behind the horn-rims. “Right! Pleased to meet you! I’m Jerry.”
“Sure thing,” I say, my gaze passing over art deco furniture and Star Trek memorabilia. “Can I talk to someone in charge?”
“Well,” Jerry says, “that’s probably me.”
I blink.
“I mean, I’m only part owner of Visuality,” Jerry says. “But I’m the project leader on BL.”
“BL?” I say, embarrassingly slow.
“Backlash.” Jerry smirks. “We’re doing great things with your movie, Scat.”
“Well,” I say, feeling a little dazed. “That’s good.”
“Hey, why don’t you come down back? I’ll show you what we’ve got.”
“Great,” I say, and I am beginning to realize just how obnoxious youthful success can be.
I follow Jerry down a dingy corridor into a little room that looks almost exactly like my college dormitory. Except, of course, I never had a million dollars’ worth of computer gear lining
the walls. Or a Bill Gates dartboard. The three guys lounging around in flannel shirts look about right though.
“This is the Dungeon,” Jerry says, grinning at me. “That’s what we call it. Our workroom.”
“You must be very proud,” I murmur. One of the monitors has an animated Pamela Anderson running along in her Bay-watch outfit, and although it’s hard to be sure, I think the boys have been playing around with digital enhancements. “So you’re working on Backlash here?”
Jerry lets out a little laugh, his eyes flicking to his workmates. “Uh, well, we’ve done Backlash here.”
I start. “What? You think you’ve finished?”
“Of course. You guys called up and canceled the rest of your booking.”
I gape. “Who did? Sneaky Pete?”
“Yeah,” Jerry says. “He’s the guy we’ve been dealing with from the start. He called us a week ago.”
“Jerry.” I’m feeling a little dizzy. “We haven’t finished. We still need you.”
Jerry stares at me. “But Scat, you canceled. Next week we start work on a Columbia picture.” His face falls. “It’s not as good as yours. I mean, it doesn’t have, you know, aliens and Gwyneth Paltrow.” He sighs heavily. “It’s some women’s flick.”
“But we need you,” I say, appalled. “We can’t wait for you to finish some other—some—” I tug at my tie.
“Hey, look,” Jerry says, a little alarmed. “What sort of footage are you shooting? Because if you want, you know, Winona to eat someone else, that’s a big job.”
I think fast. “No, there’s no major special effects. We just need some color and lightness work, I guess a little sound mixing ...”
“Oh, well,” Jerry says. “That stuff is easy. You’re only talking about a week’s work.”
I blink. “I ... thought it would take months.”
Jerry barks out a laugh. “Months? No way. We’ve already spent months on Backlash. We’d only need to work on your new stuff.” He leans forward. “Look, Scat, we know how these things sometimes run over. If you need some more work, we’ll fit you in. When we start the Columbia picture, you’ll be second priority, but we’ll help you out. Okay?”
“Are you sure? Are you sure you can do that? Because—”
“I’m sure,” Jerry says.
“Okay,” I say, trying to calm down. “Thanks. Thanks a lot.”
“You’re welcome,” he says, beaming. “So, you want to see what we’ve done?”
on track
I sit through all the post-edit Backlash footage, but there are no surprises: it’s virtually a copy of the stuff 6 and I have already seen at Coke. It seems incredible, but if Kline can shoot our changes in three weeks, I’m beginning to think we could have this movie finished in a little over a month.
I catch a cab to Coke and have time for a quick sandwich and a call to 6 before the afternoon committee meeting.
“They’ve been working in parallel with production?” 6 asks, surprised. “They don’t need months?”
“No way,” I say through an unattractive mouthful of beef. “We just need to give them our new footage and tell them what to do with it. They said about a week, maybe longer if we have to share them with Columbia.” I wash down my beef with a gulp of Fukk. “So I guess Sneaky Pete’s plan failed, huh? He thought we’d lose post-production.”
“Mmm,” 6 says.
“How are things on the set? Is everything okay with Kline?”
“We’re getting what we need.”
“Great,” I say. “Hey, things are looking up.”
mktg case study #14: mktg film
FILMS LIVE OR DIE BY WORD OF MOUTH. IF YOU HAVE A BAD FILM, SUPPRESS WOM UTTERLY: NO PREVIEWS, NO REVIEWS AND BUCKET-LOADS OF ADVERTISING. IF YOU HAVE A GOOD FILM, PULL IN AS MANY OPINION LEADERS—CRITICS, CELEBRITIES AND HOLLYWOOD HEAVYWEIGHTS—TO SEE IT AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.
then
I arrive ten minutes late for the committee meeting, which provokes a round of furrowed eyebrows and obvious glances at watches. But I’m feeling pretty good about securing post-production and I confidently ignore them all.
“Mr. Scat,” Finances says, with just the tiniest peevish tinge, “thank you for coming.”
“Pleasure,” I say, settling into a chair. “6 can’t make it, unfortunately. She’s on location. She ... sends her apologies.”
“Duly noted,” Finances says, satisfied, making a little note. “Perhaps you can open, Mr. Scat, with an update on the action items as identified in our last meeting.”
It takes me a moment to work out what “action items” are, but I get there in time. “Right. Well, Cindy is on location and performing extremely well.” I abruptly recall 6’s tips for dealing with the committee. “If I may, I’d like to say that her inclusion was a brilliant idea on this committee’s part.”
Astoundingly, false modesty breaks out across the room. “We’re all just trying to do our part,” Accounting blushes.
“Your comment is duly noted,” Finances says, and he’s not even kidding. He beams at me. “Well, it certainly sounds as if things are on track for the premiere.”
say what
Imagine you are walking down a street.
Any street. It doesn’t matter. You are happily strolling along, observing the birds in the sky, the trees lining the road, the litter on the sidewalk. You are very comfortable walking along this street, because it all makes sense. Everything is how it should be.
Then a trash can leans toward you and says, “Nice day, isn’t it?”
This is very much what it feels like to hear the words the premiere.
ticketed
“What?” I say. My voice is low and strained.
“The premiere.” Finances’ head is buried back into his notepad, transcribing my praise. “I was just remarking that everything seems ready for it.”
“Of course we’re ready,” Logistics says dismissively. “You’re practically finished, aren’t you, Scat?”
“Uh, well, kind of,” I say. “But pardon me, did—”
“Can’t we go?” a girl pipes up from the back. I have no idea who she is and at this moment I really don’t care. “Please?”
“Unfortunately, no,” Finances says sadly. “Only top management are going.”
“I heard Brad Pitt is going to be there,” the girl says, her eyes shining.
“All the stars will be there,” Logistics says importantly. “This is a very big night.”
The girl pouts. “I want to go.”
“Madeleine, we’d all like to go.” Finances turns to me, eyes wide with hope. “Mr. Scat, if there is any chance at all of procuring some spare tickets—”
I say evenly, “When is the premiere?”
panic
A long pause.
“‘When?’ ” Finances says. His voice is hoarse and shocked. “You mean you don’t know?”
As steadily as I can manage, I say, “No one told me about any premiere.”
“But it was announced more than a week ago,” Finances protests. “The same time you and Ms. 6 came onboard. Everyone knows about it.” His eyes plead me to confess knowledge of it. “It’s been in the papers.”
“This is the first I’ve heard of it.”
“Oh my God,” Logistics says.
“You must be ready in time,” Accounting says. “You must!”
Perhaps it’s just Accounting, but I’m getting very close to punching someone. “Will somebody please tell me when the premiere is?”
Uncomfortable looks shoot back and forth. Finances loses. “Ah, well,” he says. “You see, it’s, ah, Saturday. This Saturday night.”
the gray moment
I think about this.
It is now Monday afternoon. Saturday is five days away. Backlash still needs three weeks of filming and at least one week of post-production. And although I’m having trouble focusing at this particular moment, I’m pretty sure that makes it impossible for us to be ready in five days.
I con
sider this carefully, approaching it from a couple of different angles, and every time it comes out the same: it just can’t be done.
When I look up, pale committee faces are staring at me. “Mr. Scat,” Finances says. He swallows. “Please tell me that when the Coca-Cola Company unveils its history-making marketing project before the most influential people in Hollywood, we will have something to unveil.”
I say nothing.
“Mr. Scat. Please.”
“Excuse me,” I say, and I stand and walk out of the room.
snap [2]
I stride out of Coke and head for the street. When I switch on my cellphone, it informs me that in the last half hour there have been nine unsuccessful attempts to call me. So I guess 6 has found out about the premiere, too.
She picks up on the first ring. “Scat.”
“Yes.”
Her voice is hard. “I got a call from Coke’s Event Marketing. They wanted to talk about the seating arrangement. For the premiere.”
“I know.” I wave at a cab, to no avail. “The committee just asked if I could get them tickets for it. Apparently everyone knew about this thing but us.”
“This is the setup,” 6 says grimly. “A deadline we can’t meet.”
“We’ve got to go straight to Jamieson.”
6 is silent for a moment. “Did you tell the committee that we can’t be ready in time?”
“Uh, no, not exactly. But they realize something’s wrong.” Another cab sails toward me and this one responds to my wave. “Why?”
“We could, as you say, go talk to Jamieson. We could tell him we won’t be finished by this weekend because we didn’t know we had to be.”
I get into the cab and give the driver directions to Synergy. “We have to do that, right?”