Lester still thinks I have a solid beginning but that’s all I have.
“The premise is intriguing and original but the story is too dark. Black comedy is the hardest genre to sell because few people manage to do it well. Studios look for movies with mass appeal that will draw the largest possible audience.
Tad Johnson
is too niche,” he explains. “I’m afraid they’d never go for it.”
As John had said something similar about black comedy, I’m not entirely surprised by his response, but it annoys me that he didn’t mention his concern the first time I showed the script to him. If the problem all along was the story’s black comedy-ness, why did I spend four weeks and one thousand dollars trying to make it the realest real?
It’s not that I believe there’s some kind of conspiracy afoot or anything paranoid like that; it’s simply that it seems like no matter what I do, Lester won’t like it.
Maybe this is the hazing process all screenwriters go through. Maybe you have to realize your script will never be right in order for it to be right. Maybe you have to take a Zen approach and submit to the universe.
Or maybe it’s all just a mind fuck.
“What about as an indie film? Couldn’t it work as one of those?” I ask practically. If the studios won’t go for it, then fine. The dark broody colors of early Soderbergh would dovetail perfectly with Tad’s teenage angst, which is what I want anyway.
“Possibly,” he concede, “but there’s no money in it. Your work has value and should be appreciated accordingly. You wouldn’t get anything for an independent script. Have you thought about trying it as a novel? Studios are a lot less critical of books than they are of screenplays. It’s easier for them to see the potential and miss the flaws. It’s something to think about.”
Realizing it’s futile, I thank Lester for his feedback and hang up. I have a million arguments in my head for why his reasoning is wrong—there’s more to building a career than cashing big paychecks. In the movie business, I am nobody, but one solid independent hit and I could write my own ticket. Everyone has read the success stories about the little script that could. Independent films are the perfect backdoor to Hollywood, a way of paying your dues and creating a name for yourself while dodging the small-minded politics of the studio system.
I’d never be so confident as to assume I deserve to start at the top. The bottom is good enough for me as long as there’s room to grow.
But what did I really expect? I’ve known all along that Lester is only in it for the money. I’ve had this epiphany once a week for three years. Trying to push it any farther would be like banging my head against a wall.
Frustrated, I boot up my computer, open the
Tad Johnson
file and read through it, struggling to envision the story as a novel.
As hard as I try, it never adds up to anything more than a few hundred lines of dialogue.
Simon digs up two names for the
Times.
“Richard Edson is a culture writer for Arts and Leisure. He covers mostly television but does some movie stuff as well,” he says, placing a Post-it with e-mail addresses next to my computer. “Angela Deering is deputy editor for Thursday Styles. My friend from Columbia thinks you should go with her. A lot of her classmates have had success with the Thursday section. Apparently they’re hungry for material.”
As I study the Post-it, butterflies flutter in my belly. I don’t know what I’m more nervous about: being rejected or being rejected by the
New York Times.
“So Angela,” I say.
He nods. “Yep, Angela.”
I’m not ready for his easy consent. I figured we could debate the matter for a few hours before making a decision. “Should I do it now?”
“You’re welcome to sit here all day obsessing over it if you want,” he says, with a quick look at his watch, “but I have to get to work so if you need me to hold your hand while you send it, then, yes, you should do it now.”
I pick up the Post-it. It seems like such a simple thing to type in Angela Deering’s e-mail and hit send. “She’s going to hate it.”
“She’s going to love it as much as I do.”
“She’s going to think I’m whining that my movie didn’t get made.”
Simon sighs. “Seriously, I’m happy to have this discussion for the
fifth
time, but it’ll have to wait until after work. I’m already running late.”
“You really think it’s good?” I ask hesitantly.
He stands up and grabs his messenger bag. “So we’ll pick this up at seven. I’ll bring the sushi, you bring the crazy.”
The thought of sitting on the Post-it for an entire day is unbearable. “OK, OK.” I type in the address, sit back and stare at the empty subject line. “What do I write? It needs to be something smart and grabby.”
“Hollywood broke my heart,” he says, without even thinking about it.
I replay it in my head. “Doesn’t that sound needy and desperate?”
“It sounds true. Now go on, type it. Traffic is backing up on the 405 as we speak.”
I enter the sentence, then cut and paste the snappy pitch we wrote last night after we discussed for the fourth time whether or not I sounded whiny. It’s amazing how Simon’s opinion doesn’t change. Mine does by the minute. “Should I paste the essay into the letter or attached the Word document?”
“Both and make a note that the article is below and attached. That’s how I get most résumés these days.”
It only takes me a second to comply and before I know it my cursor is hovering over the send button. I can’t believe how heavily my heart is pounding. When did this become such a big deal?
“Whenever you’re ready,” Simon says when I don’t move for a full minute.
I close my eyes and click the mouse. When I open them again, the e-mail is gone, sent, skedaddled. There’s nothing I can do now.
Simon honors the moment with an extended silence. Then he picks up his messenger bag again and kisses me on the forehead. “They’re going to love it. You’ll see.”
“Thank you,” I say, grabbing his hand and squeezing it. “Really, thank you.”
With typical Simon-ness, he shrugs it off. “We’re still on for dinner, right? Me sushi, you crazy?”
I think of an entire day spent waiting for a response from Angela Deering. “With an extra helping of insane.”
The second Simon leaves, I refresh. Nothing. I dart into the bathroom to brush my teeth. When I come out, I click it again. Still nothing.
At eleven, Harry calls to see if I want to go take in the Magritte exhibit at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. “It’s closing next week,” he says.
As a former volunteer docent at the Museum of Contemporary art—he did it for three hours—Harry has an ID card that gets him and a guest into any museum in the city, and, apparently, the country, for free. It’s also good for ten percent off at gift shops and museum restaurants.
“I’d love to but I can’t,” I say, feeling none of the regret I try to imbue into my words. There’s no way I’m leaving my computer until I hear back from Angela Deering. An article pitch is like crack to an update junkie.
“Why? What are you up to?”
For some reason I don’t want to tell him about the essay. I e-mailed him a copy days ago for feedback and never heard a thing. Now I’m too embarrassed to ask. He must have thought it was a special kind of awful to bury it so deep. “Nothing really. Just some work I need to catch up on.”
“You sure you can’t do it later?” he asks cajolingly.
I refresh the page and get an e-mail from my sister with granite samples. I can’t believe a kitchen can take this long to design. “Nope, it has to be done now. I’ll call you later. Have fun.”
At four o’clock I get a response. My heart beating ferociously, I click on the message. Angela is succinct. “Interesting. Let me see.”
I immediately call Carrie with the good news. “The
New York Times
thinks I’m interesting!”
She congratulates me and asks what I thought of ash versus slate, two colors so similar they might as well be the same. “Please say you liked ash. Glenn is pushing for slate but I think it’s too dark.”
“Ash. Definitely.”
“Thanks.”
“My pleasure,” I say, thinking of the domestic discord I just fomented. “I’m always here for you.”
Angela’s next message, a half hour later, is just as concise. “We like. Please call.” My hand shaking, I dial her number. She picks up on the first ring and sounds happy to hear from me. “We really love your piece but one thing. How do I know you’re Ricki Carstone?”
“I…uh…what?”
“I need to confirm that I’m talking to Ricki Carstone and not someone who wants to sabotage her career.”
So many thoughts go through my head, I’m staggered, but one is more persistent than the others. Career sabotage. “You think the article will ruin my career?” I ask, horrified. All I was worried about was people liking it. That I would be shooting myself in the foot never occurred to me.
“Not at all. It’s delightful.”
“But you just said—”
“We always have to be careful about people using the paper to settle scores. As you’re obviously Ricki, I wouldn’t worry about it. The piece is charming and funny. We’re excited to run it. We’ve scheduled it for May 25.”
I repeat the date softly, trying to do the math in my head.
“That’s a week from Sunday,” she says.
Sunday
styles? Holy shit. “That sounds great.”
I click on new message, type the date into the subject line and send it to Carrie. I don’t know why I bother. She’s probably not online at 7 p.m.
“Good. Do you have any photos from the party we can use?” she asks.
Oh, my God. The
New York Times
is going to run my photo. “No, not really. I mean, I have a few snapshots, but they’re nothing special. Filmmagic.com has some good ones and Getty. I could send you the links.”
“No, that’s all right. Our photo editor will do it. I think that’s it. Congratulations on a wonderful piece. I know our readers will love it.”
“Thank you,” I say, struggling to seem calm and collected when all I want to do is jump up and down.
“Oh, there was one other thing. A minor detail. When I called Chancery Productions to confirm the story, they said the movie wasn’t dead.”
I’m so surprised the phone almost slips from my hand. “What?”
“They said they still hoped to make the movie. To be honest, it sounded like the standard party line to me, you know, like a face saver, but you might want to think about softening the language a bit.”
“Right,” I say, deciding that her explanation made sense. A face saver or the assistant misunderstood the question. “I’ll do that.”
“Great. I’ll be in touch. Congratulations again.”
As soon as she hangs up, I call Carrie and screech in her ear for ten minutes. I’m only capable of half sentences and obscenities. She manages to calm me down and forces me to replay the conversation word for word.
“Hold on. What does it mean the movie’s not dead?”
I shake my head. “It’s just producer speak. It doesn’t mean anything.”
An hour later, I have the same conversation with Simon. We’re at the Growlery, where I insist on taking him to celebrate his genius. “It means nothing, right?” I can’t help looking for confirmation.
“Less than nothing,” he says. “It’s the sort of bullshit you say when the
New York Times
calls. Now let’s have another round. My genius doesn’t feel celebrated enough.”
Wren brings another pitcher of margaritas and Simon makes her sit down while I retell my triumphant story, starting at the moment when he suggests I write the essay. Wren asks to read the piece but Simon tells her to wait for the
Times
like everyone else.
We stay for hours, forgoing our fancy dinner plans for bar nibbles. We try the jalapeno poppers, which I think are better, per earlier press reports, but Simon insists it’s only the taste of victory that makes them so delicious. I have no argument for that. Everything tastes sweeter tonight, even the air.
And when I put my head down at eleven thirty, giddy and drunk and excited for the future, the pillow seems softer and fluffier. Within seconds I’m asleep and it’s the deepest, most peaceful sleep I’ve ever had.
It’s wonderful to be a
New York Times
writer.
The chain of events goes like this:
The New York Times
calls Chancery Production, Chancery Productions calls Lester Dedlock and Lester Dedlock calls me to say running the article would kill my movie.
What movie? “Lloyd is still trying to make
Jarndyce and Jarndyce.
He’s lining up independent financing,” Lester explains.
The words sound so simple when he says them, and yet when I try to arrange them into a coherent sentence in my head, I come up blank. He has to repeat it three times before I finally get it.
J&J
isn’t dead. “But you said that wouldn’t happen. You said he has to cultivate relationships with the new regime and wouldn’t waste another second on
J&J.
That’s what you said.”
I know I sound accusatory; I don’t care. When the movie died, every breath of hope was squeezed out of me, hundreds of pounds of pressure crushing every cherished dream from my lungs until I was as flat as a board. It hurt in every way possible—mentally, physically, emotionally—but I got over it and moved on.
I don’t want to learn now it was for nothing.
Lester skirts the issue, staying in the present. “Lloyd is very close to securing the financing, which is why you have to pull the article.”
With each new statement he makes, my confusion grows. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I’m not stupid. I can figure this out. Let’s start at the beginning.
“What does the article have to do with the financing?” I ask.
“Your article compares your book unfavorably with
The Hanging Judge at Midnight,
” he says.
“No, it doesn’t,” I say. “If anything, my article compares
The Hanging Judge
unfavorably with mine.”
“You say
The Judge
is a national best seller and about to hit movie theaters in two weeks. You say
J&J
barely made a splash and its film deal died on the vine. The
Judge
is the champion and
J&J
the runner-up. That’s unfavorable. You can’t run an article that’s unfavorable. You and your book deserve better.”
Well, yeah, if you compare them in the most superficial way, then
The Hanging Judge
wins out, but my article makes it clear that there are estimations of success that don’t involve crude dollar signs. Mine was the better book; every reviewer said so. “I appreciate your concern but I’m not worried, and if I were, I think it would be worth the risk,” I say, hoping this will be the end of it. I appreciate Lester’s advice but his sense of the enormity of the event—Sunday Styles, the section everyone talks about on Monday morning—is skewed by his West Coast-ness. The only daily he reads is
Variety.
“Ordinarily I’d agree but it’s not that simple,” he says. “Think about it: Why would anyone want to make, let alone finance, the loser book? Everyone wants to back a champion.”
I blink several times and replay his comment carefully in my head to make sure I heard him right. Did he really just say loser book? Am I back in high school? Are producers really such facile creatures that they operate on the principals of the playground? Is some bully going to beat me up now?
Baffled by Lester’s logic, I throw myself on the couch and close my eyes. I can’t believe this is happening to me. Getting published in the
New York Times
is supposed to be unalloyed joy; now it’s just one more thing torturing me.
“They don’t have the option,” I say. “They let it lapse. If they want to make the movie, why don’t they have the option?”
“Chancery doesn’t have any money. Their discretionary fund is courtesy of Arcadia and can only be used for Arcadia projects, which this no longer is. When they tie down their financing, they’ll reoption it. By all indications that could happen very soon.” Realizing the delicacy of the situation, he imbues his voice with sympathy. “I know how hard this decision is. The article is beautifully written and you should be very proud of it. But it doesn’t stand up against the movie. I’m seventy percent certain
J&J
will be under option again by the end of the month. That’s ten thousand dollars. I know the article is a sure thing and the movie is a gamble, but don’t you have to bet on yourself? Trust me, I understand the appeal of the article, but the movie will help your career much more in the long run.”
But he doesn’t understand at all. He has no idea what’s going on inside me. Already hope has infected my body, pumping its way through my bloodstream like poison until it reaches my heart. I think of Lloyd toiling behind the scenes to make my movie happen, not giving up, not abandoning me, not choosing the goodwill of his new bosses over
J&J,
and I feel myself slowly reinflating.
I don’t want this. I know the depth of this hole and how hard it is to climb out of. I’d rather cut off a limb than find myself back in the claws of hope.
It hurts too much.
And there is it encapsulated: I don’t want to get hurt again. Like any woman who’s had a bad breakup, I don’t want to rush into another relationship.
I am every Lifetime movie ever made.
I don’t say any of this to Lester because I know he doesn’t care. My emotional needs aren’t his problem. He’s here for the fifteen percent and only the fifteen percent. That’s why he didn’t tell me about the independent financing—because until there’s money for the option, the project doesn’t exist. It’s a glean in Lloyd Chancellor’s eye, and in the meantime it’s his job to make sure I don’t do anything to screw it up.
Promising to think about it, I hang up and immediately call Simon. Suddenly I’m ridiculously thankful that he’s been through it all before. If only my present were truly his past.
I give him a brief rundown of the morning’s events and wait anxiously for his opinion. I have no idea what he’s going to say. Lester’s loser-book take seems ridiculously absurd to me but this is opposite land, where things runs counterintuitive. Maybe he’s right.
“Call Lloyd,” he says.
This is not what I’m expecting. “Huh?”
“Call Lloyd. If you’re going to pull the article for him, he should at least tell you why.”
I think of the man I stood next to at the party, the detached professional in the sharkskin suit, and feel a tremor of alarm. It doesn’t seem right that someone like me call him up on the phone and presume to talk to him. “You really think I should?”
“I think you need more information. I don’t agree with Lester’s reasoning. He could be right but he could be wrong. He calls
J&J
the loser book; I call it the underdog. The second you run the article, it becomes the comeback story, and everyone loves a comeback story, especially Hollywood.”
He’s so calm and rational, I feel some of my anxiety subsiding. If he could see the negative energy swirling inside me now, he’d be knocked over by the gale-force winds. “OK.”
“Call Lloyd,” he says again.
“Right.”
“Then call me back.”
“Will do.”
He’s silent for a moment, then: “Ricki, I’m sorry about this.”
Simon thinks this is all his fault, but it’s not. It’s Lester’s. If I’d known there was anything on the line, I wouldn’t have written the story in the first place. “Don’t be silly. Do you know what a thrill it is for me to know I wrote a
Times
-quality piece? It’s pretty amazing.”
“Glass-half-full—I like it.”
“And they’re still trying to make my movie. That’s a good thing, right?” I add.
He manages an upbeat yes, but I can tell what he’s really thinking: that sometimes it’s better to get off the roller coaster than suffer another round of ups and downs.
It’s hard to argue with the logic.
The thought of calling Lloyd directly terrifies me, and I pick up the phone six times before I actually dial his number. I don’t know why I’m so nervous. He’s just a guy who runs a production company, and only a moderately successful one at that. I mean, it’s not like he’s Scott Rudin.
I chant this in my head while I dial the number.
A woman with a clipped British accent answers, and I fumble through an explanation of who I am. She puts me on hold. Nadia immediately picks up and says Lloyd was hoping to speak with me today. “He’s on the other line but should be off in a minute. Do you mind waiting?”
Her niceness is so unprecedented I realize for the first time how much trouble I have caused with my little article, and I smile, imagining the tizzy the call from the
Times
must have set off yesterday. If I can humble just one supercilious assistant who won’t give me the time of day, then maybe this awful debacle is worth it.
Lloyd keeps me waiting ten minutes. “Hello, Ricki,” he says warmly, “it’s been a while since we’ve talked. How are you?”
Common courtesy is the last thing I expect. “In a bit of a turmoil,” I say honestly. “This article for the
Times
has me confused and upset.”
“Understandable,” he says. “It’s a great article, by the way. Very clever and neatly written.”
His comment takes me aback and I realize then and there that Lester forwarded him a copy without my permission. Something about this discovery makes me extremely uncomfortable. Suddenly I feel like the target of a vast conspiracy. Why are they working so hard to put me down? Am I that dangerous? Am I really going to do so much harm? Or is it simply the exercise of power for the sake of power? A little flexing of the dictatorial muscle? Kill the little nobody writer’s story just because you can.
Maybe they’re not even making my movie at all. They don’t want it, but they don’t want anyone else to want it either.
“As much as I admire it, though, I don’t think this is the right time for it,” Lloyd adds quickly.
“Why not?” I ask suspiciously, silently daring him to repeat Lester’s speech about loser books so I can hang up with a bang. If they’re going to make me give up the best thing in my life simply to gratify their egos, they’re going to have to do work harder than that.
“You set up
Jarndyce and Jarndyce
as the other
Hanging Judge at Midnight
,” he says. “This is a serious problem for me because the hardest part of my job for the last three years has been convincing people that
Jarndyce and Jarndyce
isn’t the same book as
The Hanging Judge at Midnight.
So I really can’t have the author of
Jarndyce and Jarndyce
announce in the
New York Times
that she wrote the other
Hanging Judge at Midnight.
It would ruin everything for me.”
As far as arguments go, it’s much better than the one about losers books and it gives me pause. For the first time since this disaster started, I imagine the call to Angela Deering. She’ll hate me. The photo department has been chasing down pictures of me with Moxie Bernard for nothing.
The New York Times
will never run anything of mine again.
Who am I kidding? This is all I have. One fucking movie that doesn’t exist, that might exist again.
When I don’t say anything, Lloyd continues. “I know you have doubts but trust me, I will get this movie made. I’m a bulldog. I’m stubborn and persistent and I have a vision. I will not give up. And you’re not giving up anything either. You’ll see at the premiere.”
His confidence is so powerful, it’s like a living thing, and I can feel the strong bands of its arms wrapping themselves around me. Right here, right now, I believe in the movie as firmly as I believe in my mother. It is something that has nurtured me for thirty years and could nurture me for another thirty.
“This is a particularly delicate time for me,” he adds, “since we’re about to lock down the financing. I’m one week away from twenty-four million dollars to make the movie, and I can’t risk my finance guys seeing the article and saying, What’s going on with this? It’s too important. Trust me, I’ve been working on this film for three years. I’ve got as much invested as you.”
I don’t know how it’s possible for him to have as much invested as me but something about his argument rings alarmingly true. He
has
been working on
J&J
for three years. Despite the obstacles, he’s remained true to his vision. It’s no more his fault that Arcadia fired Miriam Heeger than it is mine, and yet he believes so strongly in
J&J
he’d rather risk alienating the new regime than give it up.
That has to be worth something.
More confused than ever, I thank him for his time and promise to let him know what I decide. He says it’s been great talking to me and insists that I call with any questions. “Remember, we’re in this together.”
I hang up, lie down on the couch and cover my eyes with my fists. I know what’s going to happen. In six months from now, in nine months, in a year, I’ll have nothing: no option, no movie, no Sunday Styles. I’ll be back to where I started, with no reason to hope nor any ability to cope. I’ll take to the couch and never get up again.
But there’s nothing I can do about it. Seeing the future bearing down on me at a hundred miles an hour, I can’t swerve to miss it. The only reason I wrote the essay was I had nothing to lose.
Now I do.
Tears welling ridiculously in my eyes, I pick up the phone and call the
New York Times.