Hollywood is an All Volunteer Army (5 page)

 
“I don't think Sara was really happy. She acted happy, but—”

“It wasn't her game plan for you.”

“Yes, exactly. I mean she said, in a joking sort of way, but in a creepy way—”

“Like her hugs?”

“Yes
—s
he said, ‘You know, I was just weeks away from inviting you to kiss the golden arse, but now I'm not so sure.'”

“To kiss the golden arse?”

“I had no idea what she met. When I mentioned it to others, people either didn't know, or reacted strangely, in, you know, in a funny sort of way
—b
ut no one would explain it.”

“Where does the blackmail come in?”

“She said I couldn't stay at the studio, they would consider it a conflict of interest, but she said she would go-out-on-a-limb and pay more for the script than they normally would, and contract me to be a co-producer on it. It all sounded great to me. So I left the studio that day, thinking I would have a check for the script in a few days and would start on the rewrite. The studio always orders a rewrite. The negotiations, though, dragged on forever over small points. For five months. I couldn't believe it. During that time I didn't earn a dime. I had savings, so I was okay for a while. The deal finally closed, but most of the money was tied up as bonuses, I got very little up front. Then, after I signed the contract, they announced that they wanted somebody with more experience to do the rewrite. I was shocked.”

“You shouldn't have been.”

“I know, but that didn't stop it from happening. Anyway, as a co-producer, they asked me to the meetings with potential writers. It was obvious from the way they interviewed the writers, all they really wanted from my script was the concept. Then, after a writer was hired, in the first story meeting, Sara told him
—it was a Him, of course—
to throw out my main character and create a character who was just, well, just a girl. I protested. Loudly. I said, the whole reason I wrote the script was to portray a strong female who could triumph on her own. Who had inner strength of character mixed with human frailty. I really tried to, and I was most proud of having created a well rounded character. All story comes from character, I told them.”

“How did they take being lectured to?”

She shot a look at me, taking my question as censure, but a slight pulling back of her stare made it clear the censure was not unjustified. “Sara turned to me, smiled, and said, ‘I know what you were trying to accomplish with this character, but I really think we ought to go for the cliché.' I was stunned. Not that she would want to do this, but that she would so gleefully announce it. As we walked out of the meeting this little shit VP, Don Gulden, leaned into me and said, ‘You'll never be asked to kiss the golden arse acting that way.'”

“The golden arse again.”

“Yeah. When I got home, there was a message from my agent on the machine. I called him. He said the studio called with an ultimatum. If I wanted my producer's development fee check—which wasn't much, but it was the only extra income I had coming in—I would have to not go to any more meetings. ‘But it was my story,' I said. ‘Not anymore,' he said. ‘But what about the contract?' I asked him. He said it didn't matter. What was I going to do, sue Olympic? I had no other choice, I had no money left, I agreed.”

“That was the blackmail?”

“Yes, I was appalled. Then he said that they wanted me to know that Sara Hutton was very disappointed in me. As if that was information that would make me feel bad.”

“It's information that might frighten some.”

“That I can understand, but this was as if it was supposed to hurt me on an emotional level. Like I had let her down.”

She had hardly touched her salad, but she ordered another lager. “What can I do to get back at her?” She finally asked, her eyes dropping down as the question came up.

“Someone once said that success is the best revenge.”

“I don't want to wait that long.” She looked back up at me. “I want to hurt her now. Mike said that that's the kind of stuff that you do.”

“Mike doesn't really know what I do. He only knows what he thinks I do.”

“So, you don't...?”

“I fix things, Bea. Problems people run into in their careers and lives in Hollywood. Sometimes the problems are due to their own stupidity, greed or hubris. On occasion, they are due to harm being done to them by other people's stupidity, greed, or hubris. Every now and then they are just perceived problems standing in the way of wish fulfillment. Those I handle on a case-by-case basis after due consideration of the potential outcome and the potential profit. Those are the cases I charge the most for.”

“And you charge...?”

“A lot. It is always, from anyone's perspective, a lot.”

“So I can't afford you?”

“It's unlikely that you could, but, more germane to our discussion is the fact that there is nothing here to fix.”

The shock on her face went from insult to injury in something just less than a flash. There are two great desires of each human ego: to be recognized in its uniqueness, and to be taken seriously. The second is, of course, essential for the first to be a recognition of honor, something for the mantelpiece. These two desires are easily self-fulfilled—too easily
—
but the desires are never truly satiated until others fulfill them. The struggle to make others come around is every human story, from the child desperate for a parent's regard, to a mass murderer crying out from the middle of the mass, to a star personality from entertainment, sports or politics knowing just how to work the public. It's not just an old story; it's the oldest story, yet each one of us somehow thinks it is just his story. Bea Cherbourg had gotten herself so worked up over her private injuries, her private injustice; it was a blow for her to see that I did not share her outrage.

She took her glasses off and wiped the half tears—the only ones she was obviously willing to allow—away from the corners of her eyes. “Okay,” she said in acceptance, but with defiance at the edge.

There was a bit of Miss Jones creeping into my head. A bit of,
Why Miss Jones without your glasses you're
.... The mask was away.

“Look, Bea, what you have to understand is, Hollywood is an all-volunteer army. No one is drafted into the business, and enough has been written about Hollywood that no one should come here without knowing that war is a possibility. It seems to me that you've had a fairly charmed basic training. You landed a good studio job without trying. You have one of the most powerful people in the industry willing to mentor you in what has become the second most important business in America. Okay, so there's some ‘creepy' elements about her. You can't really hold that against a person in this town. You were in a good position. There were many people waiting in line for that position if you didn't want it
—a
nd you didn't. Okay. I admire people who really know what they want. From a great position you took a chance and shifted and won. Sold your first screenplay. There's another long line at the recruitment office dreaming your life. Then you get buffeted by the process, bumped and bruised, but you had the integrity of character—or the temerity—to say, ‘Hey! Quit rocking the boat!' The point is, though, it's their fucking boat. They can rock it all they want, and if you don't like it, fine, get out—for now. You're still going to be paid. You'll most likely get a first position credit. You'll have a career.”

“But, my story—”

“Is not your story anymore, it's been bought and paid for. Bea, take my suggestion, let them have this one. After all, it's just movies.”

She looked at me—deeply—as if she intended me to look away. I did not. Then she put her glasses back on.

“If I had the money to pay you—”

“It's not about my fee. I have worked on commission before. I will, from time to time, make an investment in a person's potential.”

“You obviously think I have no potential then.”

“What I think is that you are too young, too so-much-at-the-beginning to be consumed by hate. You know, anyone who can afford my fee has probably been through periods when they had no recourse to slights big and small. So they learned to take it. Those who could see the—comedy in it all took it a little bit better. They developed hard, thick calluses, not festering sores. Then when the time came when they could ask me to do something about a problem, they did it as a matter of business. With dispassion, not with hate.”

“That's the most frightening thing I've ever heard in my life.”

“Give it time. It'll eventually wind up low on your list.”

~ * ~

I paid the bill and we left the restaurant, walking up to Mike at the cash register of the newsstand.

“Is everything okay?” he asked.

“Yes,” Bea said. “Your ‘friend' doused me with reality quite effectively. I will go home and practice grinning and bearing.”

Mike caught the pain of the comment. “Do you want me to walk you home?”

“No thank you, Mike. I would really prefer to be alone.”

Bea Cherbourg turned to me saying nothing at first. Possibly she was trying to memorize the aspects of my face—or allowing me time to memorize hers. “Good-bye,” she suddenly said in a neutral tone, then turned and walked down the street, heading towards Dickens, leaving the full light of the newsstand for the intermittent illumination of street lamps and headlights. I looked after her and noticed for the first time what a fine and shapely body she had, revealed by a well cut and attractive suit.
Shame on you!
I would have said to myself had I not been enjoying this atavistic attention to my genes.

“Do you think she'll be all right?” Mike asked.

“Mike, I see where the love lies.”

He was immediately embarrassed. “Hey, you didn't say—”

“Of course not. If you are satisfied with the unrequited, I am satisfied for you. I'm just acknowledging the universality of your feelings.”

“Yeah, fine, but is she going to be all right?”

“I don't know, Mike. She's a romantic and an idealist. That doesn't bode well. She's young, that's a debit. On the other hand, she's young, and that's a credit. See how complex it is? The whole thing revolves around whether she's a survivor or not, and there's no way to tell that until she's survived a few setbacks
—o
r not. At least for now, I've dissuaded her from getting Old Testament about the situation. As was the request.”

“Yeah. Thanks—thanks a lot, Fixx. I really, really appreciate it.”

~ * ~

I drove home wanting to think about the Lapham commission, but I couldn't get Bea Cherbourg out of my head. I kept wondering if I had, perhaps, presented reality as a little more razor-sharp than it truly is, but I couldn't find fault with myself. Reality is something I'm possibly too familiar with—in much more than just its Hollywood incarnation. Indeed, one of the appeals of my doing business in this town was the opportunity of avoiding realities far more razor sharp and cutting than this one, with all it's well worn tinsel, glitter and gold.

By the time I came to the corner of Beverly Glen and Wilshire, and stopped at the red light prepared to make the left turn towards my building, a Los Angeles high-rise of rare architectural interest, I had convinced myself that it had been a good deed well done.

When I got home, Roee, as instructed, had not gone to bed, and was waiting for me. You have to appreciate what a sacrifice this was on his part. For Roee, going to bed is not just going to bed. It's when he writes, and so his wont is to “go to bed” fairly early whenever our evenings are not taken up with a commission. Roee is a failed playwright, but that doesn't stop him from continuing to write. What is failure anyway? The measure of a bank account—or the mismeasure of a man? Roee's work is abstract, absurd, obtuse, full of veiled references to the Talmud, and completely asexual. Not destined for the lights of Broadway, but then, such lights Roee would find too harsh as they might reach back and illuminate his past. Something he could not afford to have happen.

He greeted me in the dining room, sitting at his usual spot, which was set with a place mat and a silver spoon, as, indeed, was mine. Between the two settings was a silver pitcher.

“How was dinner?” he asked.

“Absolutely delicious, an excellent high culinary insult to your god.”

“I'll be sure to pass that along. How was the rest of the evening?”

“Have Newsstand Mike report to Norton,” I said as I sat down, “who can pass it along to you. Me, I would rather we talk about the Lapham commission, which, I think is going to be a great deal of fun. Not to mention highly profitable. Now, what am I looking forward to here?” I asked, indicating the set up.