The night’s shooting at the pizzeria did not go well. Bertrand proved incapable of holding the boom aloft for more than two minutes and this was one sequence where Aurélien knew he needed sound. He spent half an hour taping a mike under Delphine’s table and snaking the wires round behind the potted plants. Then this man who said he was a film critic turned up and offered to buy them a drink. While Aurélien was talking to him Delphine drank three margaritas and a Negroni. When they tried to restart, her reflexes had slowed to such an extent that when she remembered she had to throw the glass of beer the waiter had turned away and she missed completely. Aurélien wrapped it up for the night. Holbish wandered off and Aurélien drove Delphine back to the hotel. She was sick in the parking lot and started to cry and that’s when Aurélien thought about the gun.
Kaiser Prevost I rarely read film/e. It’s way too pretentious. Ditto that creep Michael Scott Gehn. Any guy with three names and I get irrationally angry. What’s wrong with plain old Michael Gehn? Are there so many Michael Gehns out there that he has to distinguish himself? ‘Oh, you mean Michael Scott Gehn, I got you now.’ I’d like a Teacher’s, straight up, with three ice cubes. Three. Thank you. Anyway for some reason I bought it that week – it was the issue with that great shot of Jessica, no, Lanier on the cover – and I read the piece about this French director Aurélien No and this remake Seeing Through Nathalie he was shooting in town. Gehn – sorry, Michael Scott Gehn – is going on like this guy is sitting there holding God’s hand and I read about the Prix d’Or and this Nathalie ‘X’ film and I think, hmmm, has Aurélien got representation? This is Haig. This is not Teacher’s.
Michael Scott Gehn I knew, I just knew when this young guy Kaiser Prevost calls me up, things would change. ‘Hi, Michael,’ he says, ‘Kaiser Prevost here.’ I don’t know jack shit about any Kaiser Prevost but I do know I hate it when someone uses my Christian name from the get-go – what’s wrong with Mr Gehn? Also his tone just assumes, just oozes the assumption, that I’m going to know who he is. I mean, I am a film critic of some reputation, if I may be immodest for a moment, and these young guys in the agencies . . . There’s a problem of perspectives, that’s what it comes down to, that’s what bedevils us. I have a theory about this town: there is no overview, nobody steps back, no one stands on the mountain looking down on the valley. Imagine an army composed entirely of officers. Let me put it another way: imagine an army where everyone thinks they’re an officer. That’s Hollywood, that’s the film business. No one wants to accept the hierarchy, no one will admit they are a foot soldier. And I’m sorry, a young agent in a boutique agency is just a GI Joe to me. Still, he was a persuasive fellow and he had some astute and flattering things to say about the article. I told him where Aurélien was staying.
Aurélien No met Kaiser Prevost for breakfast in the coffee shop of the Dollarwize. Prevost looked around him as if he had just emerged from some prolonged comatose sleep.
’You know, I’ve lived in this town for all my life and I don’t think I’ve ever even driven through here. And as for shooting a movie . . . It’s a first.’
’Well, it was right for me.’
’Oh no. I appreciate that. I think it’s fresh, original. Gehn certainly thinks a lot of you.’
’Who?’
Prevost showed him the article in film/e. Aurélien flicked through it. ‘He has written a lot.’
’Have you got a rough assembly of the new movie? Anything I could see?’
’No.’
’Any dailies? Maybe you call them rushes.’
’There are no dailies on this film. None of us see anything until it is finished.’
’The ultimate auteur, huh? That is impressive. More than that it’s cool.’
Aurélien chuckled. ‘No, it’s a question of – what do you say? – faute de mieux.’
’I couldn’t have put it better myself. Look, Aurélien, I’d like you to meet somebody, a friend of mine at a studio. Can I fix that up? I think it would be mutually beneficial.’
’Sure. If you like.’
Kaiser Prevost I have a theory about this town, this place, about the way it works: it operates best when people go beyond the bounds of acceptable behaviour. You reach a position, a course of action suggests itself, and you say, ‘This makes me morally uncomfortable,’ or ‘This will constitute a betrayal of friendship.’ In any other walk of life you withdraw, you rethink. But my theory instead goes like this: make it your working maxim. When you find yourself in a position of normative doubt then that is the sign to commit. My variation on this theory is that the really successful people go one step further. They find themselves in this moral grey area, they move right on into the black. Look at Vincent Bandine.
I knew I was doing the right thing with Aurélien No because I had determined not to tell my boss. Sheldon started ArtFocus after ten years at ICM. It was going well but it’s clear that the foundations are giving. Two months ago we lost Larry Swiftsure. Last Saturday I get a call from Sheldon: Donata Vail has walked to CAA. His own Donata. He was weeping and was looking for consolation, which I hope I provided. Under these circumstances it seemed to me at best morally dubious that I should go behind his back and try and set up a deal for Aurélien at Alcazar. I was confident it was the only route to take.
The gun idea persisted, it nagged at Aurélien. He talked about it with Bertrand, who thought it was an amusing notion.
’A gun, why not? Pam-pam-pam-pam.’
’Could you get me one? A hand-gun?’ Aurélien asked. ‘Maybe one of those guys you know . . .’
’A prop gun? Or a real one?’
’Oh, I think it should be real. Don’t tell Delphine, though.’
The next day Bertrand showed Aurélien a small scarred automatic. It cost five hundred dollars. Aurélien did not question him about its provenance.
He reshot the end of Nathalie’s levée. Nathalie, dressed, is about to leave her room, her hand is on the doorknob. She pauses, turns and goes to a dresser, from the top drawer of which she removes the gun. She checks the clip and places it in her fringed suede shoulder bag. She leaves.
He and Delphine had a prolonged debate about whether they should reshoot the entire walk to the restaurant. Delphine thought it was pointless. How, she argued, would the audience know if the gun were in her shoulder bag or not? But you would know, Aurélien countered, and everything might change. Delphine maintained that she would walk the same way whether she had a gun in her bag or not; also they had been in Los Angeles for three weeks and she was growing bored; Le Destín had been filmed in five days. A compromise was agreed: they would only reshoot the pizzeria sequence. Aurélien went off to negotiate another night’s filming.
Bob Berger I hate to admit it but I was grateful to Kaiser Prevost when he brought the Nathalie ‘X’ project to me. As I told him, I had admired Aurélien No’s work for some years and was excited and honoured at the possibility of setting up his first English-language film. More to the point the last two films I exec-ed at Alcazar had done me no favours: Disintegrator had only grossed thirteen before they stopped tracking and Sophomore Nite II had gone straight to video. I liked the idea of doing something with more art quality and with a European kind of angle. I asked Kaiser to get a script to me soonest and I raised the project at our Monday morning staff meeting. I said I thought it would be a perfect vehicle for Lanier Cross. Boy, did that make Vincent sit up. Dirty old toad (he’s my uncle).
Kaiser Prevost I’ll tell you one fact about Vincent Bandine. He has the cleanest teeth and the healthiest gums in Hollywood. Every morning a dental nurse comes to his house and flosses and cleans his teeth for him. Every morning, 365 days a year. That’s what I call class. Have you any idea how much that must cost?
Kaiser Prevost thought he detected an unsettled quality about Aurélien as he drove him to the meeting at Alcazar. Aurélien was frowning as he looked about him. The day was perfect, the air clear, the colours ideally bright; more than that he was going to a deal meeting a
t a major minor studio, or minor major depending on who you were talking to. Usually in these cases the anticipation in the car would be heady, palpable. Aurélien just made clicking noises in his mouth and fiddled with the beads on the end of his dreadlocks. Prevost told him about Alcazar Films, their money base, their ten-picture slate, their deals or potential deals with Goldie, Franklin Dean, Joel, Demi, Carlo Sancarlo and ItalFilm. The names seemed to make no impact.
As they turned up Coldwater to go over into the valley Prevost finally had to ask if everything was all right.
’There’s a slight problem,’ Aurélien admitted. ‘Delphine has left.’
’That’s too bad,’ Prevost said, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice. ‘Gone back to France?’
’I don’t know. She’s left with Bertrand.’
’Bitch, man.’
’We still have the whole last scene to reshoot.’
’Listen, Aurélien, relax. One thing you learn about working in this town. Everything can be fixed. Everything.’
’How can I finish without Delphine?’
’Have you ever heard of Lanier Cross?’
Vincent Bandine My nephew has two sterling qualities: he’s dumb and he’s eager to please. He’s a good-looking kid too and that helps, no doubt about it. Sometimes, sometimes, he gets it right. Sometimes he has a sense for the popular mood. When he started talking about this Destiny of Nathalie film I thought he was way out of his depth until he mentioned the fact that Lanier Cross would be buck naked for the first thirty minutes. I said, Get the French guy in, tie him up, get him together with Lanier. She’ll go for that. She’ll go for the French part. If the No fellow won’t play get the Englishman in, what’s his name, Tim Pascal, he’ll do it. He’ll do anything I tell him.
I have a theory about this town: there’s too much respect for art. That’s where we make all our mistakes, all of them. But if that’s a given then I’m prepared to work with it once in a while. Especially if it’ll get me Lanier Cross nekkid.
Michael Scott Gehn When I heard that Aurélien No was doing a deal with Vincent Bandine at Alcazar I was both suicidal and oddly proud. If you’d asked me where was the worst home possible for a remake of Nathalie ‘X’ I’d have said Alcazar straight off. But that’s what heartens me about this burg, this place we fret and fight in. I have a theory about this town: they all talk about the ‘business’, the ‘industry’, how hard-nosed and bottom-line obsessed they are but it’s not true. Or, rather, not the whole truth. Films of worth are made and I respect the place for it. God, I even respected Vincent Bandine for it and I never thought those words would ever issue from my mouth. We shouldn’t say: look at all the crap that gets churned out; instead we should be amazed at the good films that do emerge from time to time. There is a heart here and it’s still beating even though the pulse is kind of thready.
* * *
Aurélien was impressed with the brutal economy of Bob Berger’s office. A black ebony desk sat in the middle of a charcoal-grey carpet. Two large black leather sofas were separated by a thick sheet of glass resting on three sharp cones. On one wall were two black-and-white photographs of lily trumpets and on another was an African mask. There was no evidence of work or the tools of work apart from the long flattened telephone on his desk. Berger himself was wearing crushed banana linen; he was in his mid twenties, tall and deeply tanned.
Berger shook Aurélien’s hand warmly, his left hand gripping Aurélien’s forearm firmly as ifhe were a drowning man about to be hauled from a watery grave. He drew Aurélien to one of the leather sofas and sat him upon it. Prevost slid down beside him. A great variety of drinks was offered though Aurélien’s choice of beer caused some consternation. Berger’s assistant was despatched in search of one. Prevost and Berger’s decaff espressos arrived promptly.
Prevost gestured at the mask. ‘Home sweet home, eh, Aurélien?’
’Excuse me?’
’I love African art,’ Berger said. ‘What part of Africa are you from?’
’Kiq.’
’Right,’ Berger said.
There was a short silence.
’Oh. Congratulations,’ Berger said.
’Excuse me?’
’On the prize. Prix d’Or. Well deserved. Kaiser, have we got a print of Nathalie ‘X’?
’We’re shipping it over from Paris. It’ll be here tomorrow.’
’It will?’ Aurélien said, a little bemused.
’Everything can be fixed, Aurélien.’
’I want Lanier to see it. And Vincent.’
’Bob, I don’t know if it’s really Vincent’s scene.’
’He has to see it. OK, after we sign Lanier.’
’I think that would be wise, Bob.’
’I want to see it again, I must say. Extraordinary piece.’
’You’ve seen it?’ Aurélien said.
’Yeah. At Cannes, I think. Or possibly Berlin. Have we got a script yet, Kaiser?’
’There is no script. Extant.’
’We’ve got to get a synopsis. A treatment at least. Mike’ll want to see something on paper. He’ll never let Lanier go otherwise.’
’Shit. We need a goddam writer, then,’ Prevost said.
’Davide?’ Berger said into the speaker phone. ‘We need a writer. Get Matt Friedrich.’ He turned to Aurélien. ‘You’ll like him. One of the old school. What?’ He listened to the phone again and sighed. ‘Aurélien, we’re having some trouble tracking down your beer. What do you say to a Dr Pepper?’
Bob Berger I have a theory about this town, this place. You have people in powerful executive positions who are, to put it kindly, very ordinary-looking types. I’m not talking about intellect, I’m talking about looks. The problem is these ordinary-looking people control the lives of individuals with sensational genetic advantages. That’s an unbelievably volatile mix, I can tell you. And it cuts both ways; it can be very uncomfortable. It’s fine for me, I’m a handsome guy, I’m in good shape. But for most of my colleagues . . . It’s the source of many of our problems. That’s why I took up golf.
Lanier Cross Tolstoy said: ‘Life is a tartine de merde that we are obliged to consume daily.’
* * *
’This is for me?’ Aurélien said, looking at the house, its landscaped, multilevelled sprawl, the wide maw of its vast garage.
’You can’t stay down by the airport,’ Prevost said. ‘Not any more. You can shoot in Westchester but you can’t live there.’
A young woman emerged from the front door. She had short chestnut hair, a wide white smile and was wearing a spandex leotard and heavy climbing boots.
’This is Nancy, your assistant.’
’Hi. Good to meet you, Aurélien. Did I say that right?’
’Aurélien.’
’Aurélien?’
’It’s not important.’
’The office is in back of the tennis court. It’s in good shape.’
’Look, I got to fly, Aurélien. You’re meeting Lanier Cross 7.30 a.m. at the Hamburger Haven on the Shore. Nancy’ll fix everything up.’
To his surprise Kaiser Prevost then embraced him. When they broke apart Aurélien thought he saw tears in his eyes.
’We’ll fucking show them, man, we’ll fucking show them. Onward and upward, way to fucking go.’
’Any news of Delphine?’
’Who? No. Nothing yet. Any problems, call me, Aurélien. Twenty-four hours a day.’
Matt Friedrich Le Destin de Nathalie ‘X’ was not as boring as I had expected but then I was expecting terminal boredom. I was bored, sure, but it was nice to see Paris again. That’s the great thing they’ve got going for them, French films, they carry this wonderful cargo of nostalgic francophilia for all non-French audiences. Pretty girl too, easy on the eye. I never thought I could happily watch a girl drink herself drunk on beer in a French café, but I did. It was not a wasted hour and a half.
It sure freaked out Prevost and Berger, though. ‘Extraordinary,’ Prevost said,
clearly moved, ‘extraordinary piece.’ Berger mused awhile before announcing, ‘That girl is a fox.’ ‘Michael Scott Gehn thinks it’s a masterpiece,’ I said. They agreed, vehemently. It’s one of my tricks: when you don’t know what to say, when you hated it or you’re really stuck and anything qualified won’t pass muster, use someone else’s praise. Make it up if you have to. It’s infallible, I promise.
I asked them how long they wanted the synopsis to be: sentence length or half a page. Berger said it had to be over forty pages, closely spaced, so people would be reluctant to read it. ‘We already have coverage,’ he said, ‘but we need a document.’ ‘Make it as surreal and weird as you like,’ Prevost said, handing me the video cassette, ‘that’s the whole point.’
We walked out into the Alcazar lot and went in search of our automobiles. ‘When’s he meeting Lanier?’ Berger said. ‘Tomorrow morning. She’ll love him, Bob,’ Prevost said. ‘It’s a done deal.’ Berger gestured at the heavens. ‘Bountiful Jehovah,’ he said. ‘Get me Lanier.’
I looked at these two guys, young enough to be my sons, as they crouched into their sleek, haunchy cars under a tallow moon, fantasizing loudly, belligerently, about this notional film, the deals, the stars, and I felt enormous pity for them. I have a theory about this town: our trouble is we are at once the most confident and the most insecure people in the world. We seem bulging with self-assurance, full of loud-voiced swagger, but in reality we’re terrified, or we hate ourselves, or we’re all taking happy pills of some order or another, or seeing shrinks, or getting counselled by fakirs and shamans, or fleeced by a whole gallimaufry of frauds and mountebanks. This is the Faustian pact – or should I say this is the Faust deal – you have to make in order to live and work here: you get it all, sure, but you get royally fucked up in the process. That’s the price you pay. It’s in the contract.