Harry thinks I did the right thing and takes me to lunch to celebrate the regeneration of my movie career. We go to the set of Will Smith’s new film, an action adventure being shot entirely on location in Los Angeles. Its budget, in the low two hundreds, mysteriously covers luxuries like excellent craft services.
“Not so mysterious,” Harry says as he checks the rearview mirror and straightens the car. He’s an excellent parallel parker, a skill that continues to elude me fifteen years after my road test. That I’ve spent the last decade in Manhattan hasn’t helped the cause. “Gordon Cavanaugh is finicky and precise, as a director and a diner, so he insists on the best. Instead of using one of the usual companies, he hires the executive chef at La Cachette to provide all the meals. When I’m hugely famous, he’ll be the only director I’ll work for.”
We turn right on Grand, which is clogged with trailers, klieg lights and electrical wires and cordoned off by traffic cones. Dozens of people scurry back and forth as they rush to set up the shot while dozens of others wait impatiently on the sidelines. The Disney Concert Hall, glistening silver in the sunlight, watches the hum of activity with an air of superior boredom, perfectly indifferent to its fate as a prop about to be blown up by the conductor of the Los Angeles Philharmonic, who is also a spy for Russia.
To Mother, with Love
is a Cold War spoof, a sixties throwback, an ironic pastiche and an earnest effort.
At least that’s how Harry describes it when he runs through a brief plot synopsis. According to him, the most important part of craft services reappropriation, as he calls is, is familiarity with the film’s details. Knowing that Johnny Depp’s character is based on Esa-Pekka Salonen, the philharmonic’s Finnish music director, is the difference between a free gourmet lunch and forceful ejection from the set.
Halfway down the block, a young guy with a baseball cap and a clipboard stops us to ask our names. I stare at him blankly, wondering why Harry didn’t prep me for this, while my companion rattles off two names I’ve never heard before. The guy instantly sheds his superior look, nods obsequiously and begs us to have a nice day.
As soon as we’re out of earshot, I ask who Cheryl Mohaney and Keith Wharton are.
“Studio execs. IMDB lists the key people involved,” he says, turning in the direction of the craft services tent. We’re at least ten feet away but the wonderful flavors are already wafting toward me. The smell of Belgian waffles teases my nose.
“Can I start with dessert?” I ask.
“It’s your party, you can do whatever you want,” he says indulgently. “But I seriously recommend that you try the
bourdin.
Best sausage you’ll ever have in your life.”
Although it’s one o’clock, the height of the lunchtime rush in midtown Manhattan, the tent is empty except for a few stragglers reading the paper and sipping coffee.
“They must be setting up a scene with the extras. Otherwise this place would be teaming with extras looking to supplement their meager salaries with food for a week. Sometimes it’s like a college dining hall. I’ve actually seen people take out Tupperware,” he says as he hands me a tray.
His tone is scornful, without a hint of irony, as if the behavior of hundreds of hungry extras taking their official lunch break is somehow worse than ours. In Harry’s philosophical outlook, it is more egregious to take a mile when you’re given a yard than to steal the entire ruler.
The hypocrisy of it makes me uncomfortable but before I can think it through my eyes meet the salad spread and everything else leaves my mind as I take in the four types of lettuce, the beautiful avocado slices, tomatoes as red as candy apples and luscious goat cheese croutons. I’m in heaven.
Harry suggests we start with the first course and pace ourselves. “Think of it as an all-you-can-eat buffet,” he advises. “Do a round of small portions so you can taste everything, then go back for your favorites. And don’t forget to leave room for dessert.”
Following his advise, I limit myself to only five goat cheese croutons and half an avocado. I chose a balsamic vinaigrette dressing that’s tangy and sweet.
With our choice of locations, I pick a table in the far corner to stay under radar but Harry assures me it’s not necessary. “Once you get past the power-hungry flunky with the clipboard, you’re in. Nobody cares. I’ve been reappropriating craft services for years and have never been caught. I’ve even gotten a few parts this way but I didn’t take them. They were much too small. I’m not in it for two lines in aisle five at a Wal-Mart.”
I’m not surprised Harry could talk himself into a role—he has a natural charm that wins people over—but I’m amazed he could talk himself out of one. Two lines in aisle five at a Wal-Mart seems like a great place to start.
“So tell me more about the movie,” he says. “Is Moxie still on board?”
I haven’t thought of Moxie in days. It didn’t even occur to me to ask Lester if she’s still involved. “No, I don’t think so. Someone would have mentioned it, right?”
“Do you know who they’re thinking of to replace her?”
Another question I didn’t think to ask. “No, all I know is Lloyd’s one week away from twenty-four million dollars. Although that was two days ago so he’s five days away from it now,” I say.
Harry twists open a bottle of Coke and pours it into a cup of ice. “
Five days away from twenty-four million dollars
is the most beautiful phrase in the English language, surpassed only by
four days away from twenty-four million.”
“Yes, yes it is,” I say softly. “I wonder who his investors are.”
“Producers are very tight-lipped about their financiers because they don’t want other people to tap them, but you’ll find out in the contract. When do you expect to get the paperwork?”
I shrug and bite into a goat cheese crouton. It’s as delicious as it looks. “I have no idea. Everything’s still up in the air. Things seem like they’re in a good place right now but who knows what will happen. It could still fall through,” I say, as much as a reminder to myself as to him. This time around I want to keep my expectations in check. But it’s hard. All I can think is Lloyd Chancellor didn’t abandon me. On the contrary, he’s as invested as I am in the dream of
J&J.
He’ll make it happen. He’s a bulldog.
“Don’t be so tense. You’re already passed the fall-through stage and are now on your way to the big-money stage. I told you this is how it would be, didn’t I?” he says, with an assured smile. “I said everyone’s option lapses at least once. This business is as predictable as L.A. weather.”
I look at him—his confident grin, his bright eyes, his self-assurance—and I feel the last remaining knot in my stomach unwind. Simon’s attitude has been so different. When I told him about the pending money, he’d smiled at me sadly and said, “Honey, he’s a producer. He’s always one week away from twenty-four million dollars.” His tone was gentle and soft and made me feel like an idiot child who doesn’t know how to cross the street.
It’s a feeling I can’t quite shake. Sometimes I suspect I’m just a pawn in a game so huge I can’t even see the board.
But then I talk to Harry and everything inside me calms down. He’s always so certain. He never doubts himself or the circumstances. From his perspective my pulling the article was a no-brainer. With so much possibility looming, it was the only reasonable choice.
Harry makes me believe that it’s OK to believe.
“Well, now that that’s back on track, what’s going on with your script?” he asks.
I sigh loudly. “Nothing. Lester thinks I should turn it into a novel. Black comedies don’t sell to the studios and there’s point in pitching an independent because there’s no money in that.”
“But it’s not all about the money.”
“That’s what I said.”
“It’s true.”
“I know. It’s about building a career, investing in your future, creating a name for yourself. I mean, sure, I’d love to make some dough. It kills me to take from my savings each month. But it’s bigger than that.”
“You’re lucky you have a little something put away to get you through a rough patch. Most people don’t.”
“My grandparents left me some money. I’m supposed to buy an apartment or something with it, not pay my rent.”
“It must be a nice chunk if you can swing an apartment.”
He sounds so impressed, I have to laugh. “Please, in New York City fifty thousand is barely the down payment on a studio.”
“I’m not sure Lester’s the right agent for you,” he says breaking off a piece of bread and buttering it.
Surprised, I put down my fork and look at him. “But last year you said he’s the best in the business.”
“
One
of the best. And he is. He’s a legend. However, that doesn’t mean he’s the best one for you. He’s too mainstream, too big. You need someone who’s willing to take risks,” he says.
As much sense as his argument makes, I find the thought of getting a new agent completely terrifying. Maybe if I believed more in my screenplay, I’d have some confidence about my chances but as it stands now, I can’t imagine a stranger taking me on without the potential compensation of
J&J.
“I don’t know. Lester strikes me as fair.”
“Was it fair not to tell you that Chancery is still trying to make your book?” he asks with disgust. “Was it fair to let you write that crazy article, which caused you so much grief?”
He leaves the questions hanging and I repeat them in my head now as I have for days. No, it wasn’t fair of him not to tell me, especially when he made such a convincing argument for why it would never happen. Would knowing have changed anything? I think of my darkened living room, the scattered books, the hundreds of pounds of popcorn. Yes, it would have changed everything.
Harry sees me wavering. “Look, why don’t I show your script to a few people to get their opinion. It’s not a commitment or anything. Just, you know, another perspective. If everyone agrees with Lester, then you’ll have the peace of mind of knowing his take was right. And if everyone doesn’t, then you’ll know you have options. It’s win-win.”
I consider it for only a moment, looking for the obvious down side and not finding it. “All right, sure. I’ll e-mail you the most recent draft as soon as I get home.”
“Cool, and I’ll pull together a list of names immediately. I think you’re going to be surprised how many people love it. You better be prepared to show them something else. Are you working on a new idea?”
Biting into the last of my crouton, I sigh. Suddenly screenwriting seems very similar to novel writing. People always want you to have more. But I think of the amount of work I put into
J&J
versus
Tad Johnson
and there’s no comparison. I could write twelve
Tad Johnson
s
in the same amount of time. “Nothing in particular.”
“That’s all right. Don’t put pressure on yourself. A new idea will come to you.” Harry finishes his salad and gestures to the buffet table. “Ready for round two?”
“Absolutely.”
I make a beeline for the soup tureens while Harry heads straight for the cured meats. All three options—lobster bisque, French onion and split pea—look delicious and I take a bowl of each. I’m not sure how I’m doing in the pace-yourself department but I’m excelling in Gorging Yourself 101.
Just as we’re about to make a hot-plate sweep, a mob of extras enters the tent in torn clothes and bloody cheeks. They’re victims of the bomb explosion, and as hungry as Harry predicted they’d be. Within minutes, the goat cheese croutons and most of the pâté is gone. I haven’t even tried the latter.
Harry sees the panic in my eyes. “Don’t worry. As soon as they’re gone, they’ll bring out more.”
Sure enough, the caters restock the tables ten minutes after the extras leave to reassume their positions on the hoods of cars and under lamp posts. Not willing to take chances, I fill up two plates at once, making sure I get one of everything. Harry laughs at my preemptive strike but compliments me on how neatly I’ve separated my steak au poivre from lamb au jus. I tell him it’s a gift.
The afternoon passes quickly as actors and crew members breeze through the tent. Some stay, but most pick up their food and go. At one point, we spot the hot young actress playing the love interest over by the coffee bar but her name eludes us both. I think it’s Cynthia something. Harry says it sounds like Sienna.
Will Smith never comes through.
At four, we take our trays up for the last time and thoughtfully select an assortment of cookies and cakes to take on the road. We wrap them in napkins and stick them in our pockets, which is very different, Harry assures me, than using Tupperware, which implies intent. Our actions are spontaneous.
Hardly in the mood to disagree, I follow him out of the tent and down the street. I stay a few steps behind because I don’t have the energy to catch up. I’m stuffed beyond Christmas and Thanksgiving combined and can’t imagine ever eating again. Even my pinky finger feels distended, and when I bend to get into the car, I wonder for a moment if I’m going to through up.
Still, I can’t think of a better way to celebrate the rebirth of my movie career than this.
Lester is right. By the end of the month,
Jarndyce and Jarndyce
is back under option with Chancery Productions. But it’s not the same as last time.
“They’re offering you a dollar,” he says right off the bat. “A dollar for eight weeks. If, at the end of that time, they have their financing in place, you’ll get ten thousand dollars for a one-year option. That’s an improvement over last time, when you got ten thousand dollars for an eighteen-month option. When the money drops, you’ll get a $35,000 bonus, which is ten more than last time. They’re still offering you two point five percent of the budget, only this time the floor is $300,000 and the ceiling is $550,000. That’s a fifty thousand dollar bump on both ends. There’s no renewal clause because Lloyd doesn’t think he’ll need it. They’ll be in production by the end of the twelve months.”
As Lester runs through the numbers, I jot them down on a pad so I’ll have all the details straight when I e-mail people with the good news. I can already see the subject line: Back in business.
It’s not until I start mentally composing the message—realizing not only the intense relief I feel but the validation—that I understand how much of my identify is tied up in the option. Suddenly I am someone again.
“They’re offering you full reversion of rights, which is another improvement over last time,” he continues.
Full reversion is a coup. Arcadia refused to budge on that issue, stubbornly insisting that even if they don’t make the movie, they have the right to keep the rights. They would rather
J&J
spent eternity buried in a dark little filing cabinet in a smelly dank basement than give it back to me after an interval. The only hope for
J&J
would be if some curious producer happened to stumble across it, see the potential and revive interest. This is called turnaround, and it is, as far as I can tell, a fable writers tell each other to give comfort on dark and stormy nights.
“What happens if they don’t have their financing?” I ask. Reversion doesn’t mean a thing if they never buy the rights in the first place.
“The option will lapse,” he says succinctly. “But in the meantime, we retain the right to shop
Jarndyce and Jarndyce
to other producers. If someone makes an offer, we take it to Lloyd, who will either pick up the one-year option or release you from your obligation. They’re being very fair in this provision. They could close us off to other negotiations, in which case I’d advise you to turn down the deal. As it is, I think it’s a decent offer and advise you to accept.”
“All right,” I say without hesitation. I’ve been prepared for this moment for three weeks and every day it didn’t happen, I became a little bit more convinced Lloyd Chancellor had been fucking with me with his one-week-away-from-twenty-four-million dollar claim. I began to believe Simon was right.
But here, finally, is proof that he’s sincere. He’s in as deep as I am and will do everything in his power to get the movie made.
The relief I feel is stunning.
“Good, I’ll draw up a deal memo right away and e-mail it to Lloyd.”
The mention of paperwork sobers me immediately. “Last time it took nine months to negotiate the contract,” I remind him. “What if that happens again?”
“It’s not possible. The situation is entirely different. For one, the contract won’t be nearly as complicated. It’s basically a one-page memo repeating what we just discussed. It should take three days at the most. But we don’t need the contract. The eight weeks begin tomorrow morning.”
“Really?” I ask, running to the bedroom to look at a calendar. I count eight weeks and circle the date: July 22 (day 1,161). I make cheerful little stars around the number. At long last, I have something solid and finite to pin my hopes to. The miasmic, interminable, neither-here-nor-there Hollywood system is finally being held to a real number. Either we commit to making a movie on July 22 or we give it up for good. Either I get ten thousand dollars or closure.
It seems like a fair deal to me.
“Yes. The clock starts ticking now,” he says.
“That’s fabulous.”
“Good. So I’ll contact Lloyd right now. Please don’t hesitate to call with questions,” he says.
Lester hangs up and I stare contemplatingly at the Hello Kitty calendar, at the stars sparkling around the magical date, which seems so far away. Suddenly July feels like another century and I will have to pass through eons to get there. It’s frustrating but this is what my life has become.
Moviemaking is all wishing and waiting.