By the end of his speech, his tone is soft and pleading and I find myself softening too. His intentions are good. He only wants the best for me, and it’s not his fault he’s been hurt so many times by Hollywood that he can’t see anything but his own pain. All he wants is to save me from heartache.
How can I hold that against him?
It would be better, of course, if he realized I’m a grown woman who can take care of herself. I’m not the turnip-truck greenhorn he seems to think I am. But that will come in time. He doesn’t know me well enough yet.
But if we’re ever going to make it that long, we clearly need to stay away from any movie talk. I love fish-tacos-on-the-beach Simon and looking-at-Pinkie Simon and surprise-me-with-sushi Simon but I can’t stand this man who knows everything and is just waiting for me to fail. Hollywood-insider Simon is intolerable.
As disappointed as I am that any topic is off-limits, I’m relieved to have discovered the toxic downside to Simon so early on. Now I don’t have to wait for the other shoe to drop.
So, for the sake of our relationship and its fragile future, I refill his wineglass and ask him if he knows the three important questions every parent should pose before giving in to a child’s demand.
Somehow, he manages to guess two out of three.
The first thing Tulk says after we order lunch is: “We’re not going to decide anything today.”
It’s a pretty dramatic statement for the circumstances but I nod. “All right.”
“Today, we talk. Tomorrow, maybe the day after, maybe next week, we can make up our minds. But this is a big decision and I won’t let you make it over guacamole and bean dip,” he says, with perfect indifference to the fact that we ordered a veggie quesadilla and a fiesta salad.
He was going for imagery. I get that.
“Solution Pictures is new and small and they’re looking at
Tad Johnson
as one of their kick-off projects. They’ve got a few things in the works but Joshua Smallweed, the founder of Solution, thinks your script could be the one that takes them all the way to the Oscars. You know with indies, the big question is distribution, right?” he asks.
I nod. The better your film does at Sundance and Cannes and Venice, the better chance it has of being picked up by a distributor. Many films that are made never get a chance to find an audience. It’s a sad thought but not that different from book publishing or even screenwriting. Very few works ever see the light.
“Josh’s credentials are solid. He worked with Katzenberg at Dreamworks for five years and Grazer at Imagine for three. He set up Solution about a year ago because he was tired of the Hollywood system of making watered-down movies with mass appeal. He believes it’s possible to make quality movies with mass appeal. And he’d like to start with
How Tad Johnson Got into Harvard.
”
The waitress brings our platters and refills Tulk’s coffee cup. I’ve never seen anyone eat lettuce and java at the same time before, but he seems immune to the strangeness as he pours blue cheese dressing over the grilled chicken.
“Hmm,” Tulk says, breathing in deeply. “Doesn’t that smell good? The food here is wonderful. Just wait until dessert. Flan that will make you believe in God.”
Although I asked for the quesadilla without bell peppers, it comes stuffed with them, and I pick out a few green strips before I realize it’s too much work. I dig in. The cheese is melted perfectly.
“The really exciting thing about Josh’s offer is he wants to bring you on board as a producer,” Tulk says.
As soon as he says the word, I realize the money situation is worse than I thought. Lloyd gave Tipston and Field production credits because he didn’t have money to pay them. But that’s all right, I remind myself, blocking out the dwindling balance of my nest egg, I’m here to build a career. A production credit is an investment in my future.
“He thinks you have really great ideas and a strong vision. He wants your input on everything from set design to casting. How does that sound?”
“Amazing,” I say with total sincerity. The last time my opinion was sought on a professional matter, the office manager at HWSP asked if she should photocopy that year’s holiday schedule onto white paper or beige.
“Josh’s keeping the budget small. He thinks he can do it on three hundred thou. He’s drawn up a tight, thirty-one-day production schedule, which will keep costs down. He’s got Abel Fiero playing Tad. You know who he is, right? He’s the star of
Fifties Dreaming.
Very popular with the eighteen-to-twenty-four-year-olds. He’s willing to do the film for nothing to prove his acting chops.”
I’m not surprised Abel Fiero wants to show the world he can act. On
Fifties Dreaming,
a laugh track sitcom that lampoons midcentury morality and culture, he spends the entire half hour winking at the camera and delivering lines with a gee-whiz enthusiasm. It’s painful to watch.
“The tricky part, as with any film, is pulling together the financing. Joshua has enough to cover development but is only just starting to work on production. All he needs is a little seed money to start with. He thinks fifty thousand should do it. Nothing propinks like propinquity, right?” Tulk says. He’s so busy talking, he’s barely touched his salad.
Although I think it’s a rhetorical question, it quickly becomes clear he’s waiting for a response. “I’m not sure. What does
propink
mean?”
“I’ve just dated myself, haven’t I, sugar pie?” he says with a self-conscious smile. “It means money makes money. If Joshua can show potential investors that he already has investors, then it’ll be easier to get investors. Does that make sense?”
It’s an age-old concept, repeated many times at the law firm, and I nod emphatically.
He smiles and takes a sip of his coffee, which must be cold by now. “Good. So what do you think?”
I keep my concern about Abel Fiero winking his way through the movie to myself and tell him I think it sounds wonderful. I can’t wait to get started.
“Don’t rush into anything,” he says cautiously. “Fifty thousand dollars is a lot of money.”
I’m about to agree—to say, Yes, fifty thousand dollars is a lot of money—when it hits me that he means fifty thousand dollars is a lot of
my
money. The idea is so insane, so incredibly detached from anything real or possible, all I can do laugh hysterically until tears fall from my eyes. Tulk waits as I struggle for breath and clutch my stomach. I can’t remember ever being so amused in my entire life.
This has to be a joke. I’m being punk’d. Where’s the camera?
It takes me five minutes to regain control, another three to calm down. By the time I’m able to breathe normally, Tulk has finished his salad. The waitress is refilling his coffee cup.
“I’m sorry,” I say, still a little breathless. “It’s just that it’s such a crazy idea. Don’t you think it’s crazy?”
Tulk smiles but doesn’t seem amused. “Why is it crazy?”
“Because…because…” I sputter. Sometimes something’s so obvious, you can’t even begin to articulate it. I close my eyes and slow down. Why is it crazy? Because the fifty thousand dollars is everything I own and everything I am. It’s my comfort and my security and my peace of mind when things get rocky. It makes all things possible.
I haven’t spent my whole life hoarding my grandparents’ legacy just to throw it away on the first reckless gamble to come my way.
I try to explain this to Tulk, thinking it’s logical and self-evident, but he surprises me by sticking just as staunchly to his point. “
Tad Johnson
isn’t a reckless gamble; it’s a sound investment. I shouldn’t have to tell you that. You’ve got a producer and a star lined up and a home run of a script. When they talk about limiting liability, this is exactly what they mean. You came out here to be a filmmaker, right?”
As much as I want to cover my ears and block him out, I sit there quietly and nod.
“Well, this is your chance. Think about it.”
But the thing is, I don’t want to think about it. It’s far too scary. My first reaction is the right reaction. This is all a big joke. Sooner or later the men with the cameras will jump out and yell, Gotcha!
“Don’t look so serious,” he says. “Whatever you decide, this is still exciting news. The deal they’re offering is very fair. You’d be a full partner and get ten percent of the gross. That’s gross, not net, which is what we want. No film actually nets money but gross is whatever it pulls in. A modest indie like, say,
The Station Agent,
made five million. So in that case you’re looking at five hundred thou. How do you like them clams? As for credit, like I said, you’re in for executive producer, which means you’d get to accept the Oscar.” He winks. “You might want to prepare a speech beforehand. I hate when they go up there and stammer.”
I shake my head, terrified of the logic. Everything makes sense when he says it.
“Remember, we’re not coming to any decisions right now. We’re just looking at our options.”
He can say that all he wants but it’s clear where he really stands. His mind is made up. “But you think I should do it.”
Tulk immediately shakes his head. “No, I think you should do it if you think you should do it.”
I lay my head down on the table. “Tulk, that’s pure double talk.”
“Listen, my job is to give you the benefit of my experience. That’s all. I’ve been around a while and seen some things and then I come here for the flan and tell you about them. I can tell you that the deal is fair. I can tell you that people invest their money and the equivalent in films all the time. Hilary Swank got paid a measly three thou to do
Boys Don’t Cry.
How’d that work out for her? Ed Burns maxed out his credit card to make
The Brothers McMullen.
Another not-so-terrible outcome, wouldn’t you say? Should I go on? I’ve got a million of these. The point is, you have to have faith in yourself and your project. If you have that, you have everything. If you don’t, then maybe you shouldn’t be here.” He wipes his hands on his napkin, throws it on the table and looks around for our waitress. “Now, are you ready for flan?”
I smile wanly and nod yes, but the truth I couldn’t possibly eat another thing because my stomach still hurts.
And the pain isn’t from laughter but fear.
Following Tulk’s advice, I decide not to decide. I leave it in the hands of fate: If the investors come through with the money for
J&J,
I’ll do it. If they don’t, I won’t.
It seems reasonable enough and I wait with bated breath to hear about the outcome of the meeting.
The days pass with interminable slowness, each one feeling more like a week than the mere twenty-four-hour period it is. Filling the time becomes a new challenge, and I realize how easy it is to go out of your mind watching the clock. I try to start the new script, but I’m too jittery and impatient to focus. Instead, I spend the hours in front of the television, jumping from
Law & Order
to
Love & Valor
to
Judge Judy
to
Dr. Phil
back to
Law & Order.
One morning I catch a marathon of
The Real Housewives of Orange County
and in a matter of seconds, I’m hooked.
The day of the meeting finally arrives and I check my watch every ten minutes and think, They could be meeting now. Or, they could be done meeting now. Or, Lloyd could have the money now.
Lester doesn’t call, which isn’t a surprise, so I give him a day and call myself. He tells me it’s way too soon to hear anything. He promises to call as soon as he gets word.
This is unacceptable, so I dash off an e-mail to Nadia in Lloyd’s office. I keep it brief, only asking if she heard anything about how the meeting went and making fun of myself for not being able to wait patiently for the information to trickle down to me.
Nadia answers immediately, which I realize is a bad sign. Whenever there’s something worthwhile to pass on, she ignores me completely.
Sure enough, she confirms my worst suspicions: The meeting has been postponed four weeks.
Deflated, I turn off the television and stare at the blank screen, wondering how the hell I’m going to get through the next four weeks. The last one almost killed me.
Maybe I should go away, hop on the first flight to a faraway place like Billings, Montana, or Sioux Falls, South Dakota, and spend the three weeks trying to get back to L.A. I could take Greyhound or hitchhike. After a while I might even lose track of the days. Maybe somewhere near Laramie, I’ll find an adorable clapboard house among the purple hills and fall in love with the simple beauty of a wide-open sky. I’ll get a job keeping books for an ornery rancher and go to barn dances on Friday nights.
I picture myself in overalls and a bandana with hay in my hair and know it won’t work. Clapboard houses are for weekends in the country with your boyfriend or children. Real life happens only during the week. No movie has ever been green-lighted on a Sunday afternoon.
Three o’clock rolls around but I don’t turn on
Love & Valor,
even though I’m dying to know if Jinx shoots Giovanni in the sting operation before she realizes who he is. This is serious. I have to come up with a plan. I can’t just do nothing.
I consider my options.
I can do nothing until the investor meeting convenes in January. This would require calling Tulk and seeing if Joshua Smallweed is cool with waiting at least four weeks for an answer. The advantages to this are: Smallweed might find other backers in the interim and not need my money anymore; I get to avoid making a decision. The disadvantages are obvious: Smallweed could get impatient or lose interest; the investor meeting might get postponed again. Based on the epic slowness with which all decisions regarding
J&J
are made, there’s no reason to assume the meeting will take place before Easter, or even at all. I could be marking time for the rest of my life.
Or I could make the decision myself.
It’s a terrifying thought and the pain in my stomach instantly returns.
Still, there’s no way around it. The postponement is the universe telling me I need to be accountable for my own life. I can’t keep abdicating responsibility.
More than a little freaked out (and nauseous), I sit at my computer and start Googling. I begin with Joshua Smallweed. His credentials check out—that is, he worked on Imagine and Dreamworks films—but are less impressive than Tulk made them sound. Aside from
The King in the Parlor,
for which he is listed as associate producer, all his credits are minor assistant-tos or post-production-advisors. His bio on Solution’s website lists movies for which IMDB doesn’t credit him. I don’t know what that means.
I can’t find any press announcing the formation of his production company except on his site but that doesn’t seem strange to me. A hundred such companies must form every day in college dorm rooms and theater workshop basements. There’s even another Solution Pictures, in the UK. The three principals are West End actors trying to breakout of jukebox musicals. I understand completely how they feel.
Next I look up Ed Burns and confirm that he sank his own money into his first movie. From there it’s easy to find other examples of filmmakers who scrounged money from anyone they could—parents, uncles, high school teachers—to pull together enough to finish their project. It’s an age-old story. Just like Tulk said.
Mel Gibson personally funded
The Passion of Christ.
Different scale, same thing.
The pain in my stomach intensifies. I don’t want to do this.
I spend the rest of the day and most of the night maniacally Googling anything that seems the least bit relevant. I check out Hilary Swank. She did indeed make $3,000 for
Boys Don’t Cry.
It’s not the same as putting up your own money but there are similarities. It’s about sacrificing for the future, suffering now in the hope of a better tomorrow.
By three a.m., I’m convinced I have to do this. I can’t believe in myself less than Hilary Swank. I saw all her episodes on
90210,
in which she played a single mom and Steve’s girlfriend. She was so awful, Tori Spelling looked like a Shakespearean genius in comparison.
But she knew better. In some deep, dark recess of her soul, she believed she had Academy Award performances inside her. She believed it so strongly that she gave up money and comfort to get it. She chose the hard road because she wanted it badly enough.
How could I do anything less?