Flavor of the Month (61 page)

Harold from the mailroom knocked on Lila’s dressing-room door, then entered when she answered. Lila was very clear about that: no one was to be in her dressing room without her, and it was kept locked at all times. “Miss Kyle, where do you want your mail?” he asked. He wanted to get away from her as fast as possible. Everyone at the studio knew she could be dangerous, even without provocation. He was the one in the mailroom who had lost the draw, so here he was.

Lila didn’t turn around to look at him. “Where the fuck do you think I want my mail? On the desk!”

“But, Miss Kyle…”

Lila turned to him. “Don’t make a major production out of it. Just put the fucking mail on the fucking desk down at the end, where I told you to. And get out.”

He watched her go back to brushing her long hair, shrugged his shoulders, and stepped outside. He lifted a large mailbag from the cart, and walked back in. “And take it out of the bag,” she yelled at him. Harold lifted the bag and dumped the contents on the desk. He went back outside, and brought the other two bags inside, emptying each on the now buried desk. Bitch wants it out of the bag, bitch goin’ get it out of the bag.

He closed the door quietly after him, and had begun to push the empty mail cart back to the mailroom when he heard Lila shriek. Then the door to her dressing room slammed open, and she stood screaming at him. “You asshole, get back here. I didn’t know there was so much. I can’t even walk! Get back here and put all that mail back in bags. Every piece, do you hear?”

Harold sighed, moved back into Lila’s trailer, then began scooping up the fan mail and stuffing it back into the sacks. The bitch looked up at him.

“How many sacks did it come to?” Lila asked him.

“Seven, Miss Kyle. There’s four more I couldn’t fit on the handtruck.”

She paused for a moment. Then she frowned. “How many did Smith and Moore get?” she asked.

Paul Grasso leaned back in his swivel chair and stretched as he listened to the harangue coming out of the phone earpiece. Yahta, yahta, yahta. “Mel, listen, I’m sorry, but we’re booked till February. Ya wanna talk about then, maybe we could…” More Australian-accented yahta yahta yahta. “Look, I understand you’ll be on location then, but that’s the slot we got. Everyone and their bookie wants a guest shot. No, no, Bob definitely couldn’t reschedule. I mean it, man. Look, I’m sorry. Maybe first episode next year. Sure. I know it’s perfect. The girl road warriors meet the original. Right. Listen, here’s what I’ll do: I’ll talk to Marty tomorrow, and his people will call your people, all right? Maybe
they
can find a slot. Right. You, too, babe.”

What’s On … SUNDAY 8:00 p.m.— Star Search Famous Look-Alikes. Tonight, Ivana Trump. 9:00 p.m.— Three for the Road. In San Francisco Cara meets and becomes romantically involved with a Tim Leary follower. Crimson, Cara, and Clover try LSD. Cameo appearances by Leary and Donovan.

Grasso hung up the phone and rubbed his eyes. He felt the stubble on his upper cheeks. Shit. He’d been out late last night, at a poker game with a few buddies, and he’d woken up so late this morning he hadn’t had time to shave. He reached into the side drawer of his desk and pulled out the Braun electric razor he stored there, switched it on, and began to run it over the left side of his jaw. He didn’t even need to use the mirror, which was just as well, since he must look like death on a bender after nine hours at the card table. He felt the smooth side of his jaw. You had to hand it to those Nazis. They knew how to build the shit out of anything. He moved the razor to the other side of his face. Then the buzzer began again.

“Yeah?” Christ, this business would kill him. One day you can’t cast a fuckin’ jeans commercial, and the next day you’re the gateway to the hottest show in the country. “Whataya want, Patty?”

“It’s another one.”

“I’m out,” he told her. “You handle it.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I’m
out
,” he repeated. Patty was smart—shit, she could run the fuckin’ place without him—but she was sometimes a pushy bitch.

“It’s Brando,” Patty said.

It was hard to hear her over the buzzing Braun. “Brandon Tartikoff?” he asked. “What the fuck does
he
want?”

“Not Bran
don
. Bran
do
,” Patty yelled.

“Holy shit!” Paul Grasso said. “
He
wants a cameo?”

“Apparently.”

Paul Grasso laughed and turned off the razor. “Hey, Patty. Ya think the wild one can still ride a motorcycle?”

Jahne clutched her hands nervously behind her. The two other people in the green room—her publicist and some nerdy stand-up—stared at the screen where Arsenio was busy rapping with some black dancer. Jahne wished she hadn’t agreed to do this. She was an actress, not a personality. This was the kind of stuff Neil used to want to do. How would he handle it? The butterflies in her stomach were as large as barn swallows. Then the assistant producer was there, leading her through the dark hall and leaving her to enter into the glaring light. Arsenio, now in person, stood up and extended his hand. She took it, smiled, and sat down. The chat began.

“So, are you as political in life as you are on the show, Jahne?”

“Not really.” She knew she should say more, sparkle, be funny or sexy or something, but she was only an actress, and she had no lines.

“So, you’ve got no position on stuff.”

“Well, women’s rights…”

“Like abortion?”

“Yeah. I feel strongly that no women should be given abortions.” She felt Arsenio stiffen, and heard a hiss from the audience. “Unless, of course, they’re pregnant,” she finished, and after a beat she got her big laugh. Thank you, Neil Morelli, she thought, and the interview continued, smooth as silk.

What’s On … SUNDAY 8:00 p.m.— Star Search Famous Look-Alikes. Tonight, Larry Fortensky. 9:00 p.m.— Three for the Road. Crimson and Clover and Cara go to Woodstock, N.Y., for the concert. Bob Dylan and Neil Young guest star.

It was her day off, and Jahne was exhausted. Who’d ever imagine that success could be so tiring? Already Sy had let her know that movie offers were pouring in—they were mostly jiggle-in-leather scripts, but better things would surely follow. The Arsenio gig had gone surprisingly well; after her initial stage fright, she’d loosened up and been tough and funny. Now Sy was pushing more appearances. She stared at the pile of movie treatments, her next week’s scripts, memos and pictures to autograph, and sighed. No, today she would simply rest. She’d bought an Anne Tyler book, and she’d stretch out by the pool, ready to enjoy it. But first she picked up the copy of
Vogue
. It opened to the two-page spread of the three of them. Gorgeous black-and-white photos. They all looked beautiful. Only the three of them knew the hours and hours they’d spent under the hot lights to get that perfection, with dozens of specialists huddling over them constantly to create the illusion of perfection. But my, she looked fabulous. She stared and stared.

Dr. Moore had warned her about the sun, so she was prepared. “Sun is bad for everyone, but it would be murder on you,” he had reminded her in his last letter. “I’ve been able to get such good results because you never tanned, so your skin, despite aging, has retained a lot of its flexibility. But in the future, no sun—ever.” She’d laughed, and written him back to say he made her sound like a vampire, and that the only reason she hadn’t tanned before was that she could never afford to go away to a beach. Now she had her own private lap pool. But she’d rubbed SPF number fifteen all over herself half an hour ago, she’d poured half a jar of conditioner on her hair, swathed it in a towel, and was wearing huge sunglasses. To stay cool, she had a long, white cotton robe, a wonderful, fine Egyptian cotton, smoother than silk. And the houseman had fixed her a pitcher of iced tea. Now, for the very first time, she was going to spend the whole morning just quietly enjoying the warmth, the pool, the vista. Then, later, she’d do her laps, work out with her trainer and, at two, a masseuse that Mai had recommended was coming over to work on her back and legs. Jahne stretched out luxuriously, opened to the first page of
Saint Maybe
, and took a deep breath.

She heard it before she saw it. There was a grinding of gears out front that sounded as if an eighteen-wheeler was making it up the hill in front of the house, and then a loud radio or something. Did politicians drive around the Swish Alps making announcements? Then she heard it more clearly.

“…
ACTUAL PRIVATE HOME OF JAHNE MOORE
,
BETTER KNOWN AS
‘
CARA
’
IN
THREE FOR THE ROAD
.
THE ACTRESS LIVES HERE ALONE IN A TWO
-
BEDROOM BUNGALOW COMPLETE WITH POOL AND POOL HOUSE
.
SHE MAY EVEN BE AT HOME RIGHT NOW
.”

Jahne jumped up, her heart pounding, and turned. She could glimpse the top of the smoked windows of the bus from where she stood. Did that mean they could see her? She scuttled closer to the fence and peeped through a crack in the weathered gray boards. “See the Stars” was painted in rainbow colors across the side of the bus. “Tours of the Hollywood Homes of Your Favorite TV and Movie Stars,” it said on a raised panel along the roofline.

Not sure whether she wanted to laugh or cry, Jahne turned and walked, quickly as she could, back into the house, leaving her book unread and the tea untouched beside it.

from
Advertising Age
…

Flanders Cosmetics Go Through the Roof

In perhaps the most successful launch in the industry, Flanders Cosmetics has pulled off a coup historic both in conception and implementation. Tying in their new integrated line of treatment and makeup products with the hot new
Three for the Road
TV show has been a masterful stroke of market savvy and just plain hard work.

“I envisioned it and I made it happen,” says Monica Flanders. Banion O’Malley, the agency that handled the project, echoed her…

“T-shirts only, Phil. We’re doing a separate deal on posters and the rest.” Sy looked across at the man who had waited three weeks for an appointment with him.

“Sy, please, this is just the tip of the fuckin’ iceberg…Sorry, Miss Smith. But, listen, you give us the T-shirts
and
the posters, and we’ll keep our profit to five percent an item. What do you say?” He was begging Sy, but looking at Sharleen.

Sy was shaking his head. “We got the posters lined up already, Phil. I could have the T-shirts done by the same guys, but I wanted to give you a break, you know, a piece of what’s happening. I don’t forget my friends, but don’t go greedy on me. T-shirts, that’s it. And you still keep your share of the net to five percent.” Sy waited for Phil to respond; then, when he nodded his head yes, Sy signed the sheaf of papers and passed them to Sharleen. After she scrawled her signature, he handed them to Phil. “Have my girl make copies of these on your way out.”

When the door closed behind Phil, Sharleen finally spoke. “Only five percent? How’s the poor man going to make any money?”

Sy grinned. “At five percent, honey, the guy’s going to be able to retire. Do you know how many of those T-shirts we’re going to sell? Over five million the first month on sale.
Five million T-shirts!
He’ll make six figures the first month alone.”

Sharleen shook her head, as if trying to understand. “And we get money on each shirt?”

Sy nodded, waiting to see if Sharleen would calculate her share.

But she didn’t. Sy almost laughed. This hillbilly was a pleasure. It was such a nice change to meet a beautiful woman who didn’t have a computer for a heart. It made running his bodega so much easier.

“That’s right, honey. And we haven’t even figured in the posters, stationery, line of clothes, endorsements, pens, leather jackets, shoulder bags, lunch boxes…Honey, we’re talking millions here. Millions.”

“Millions? For just my picture on things? Mr. Ortis, are you
sure
you got this right?”

Sy laughed. “Sharleen, about this stuff I don’t make a mistake. I said millions, and I mean millions.”

What’s On … SUNDAY 8:00 p.m.— Star Search Famous Look-Alikes. Tonight, Milli Vanilli. 9:00 p.m.— Three for the Road. Clover meets the Merry Pranksters and she, Cara, and Crimson “get on the bus” and tour San Francisco. Michelle Pfeiffer and Marlon Brando guest star.

THE MEDIA… A three-character nostalgic TV series is hardly a phenomenon in these times of imitation and reproduction. But this season’s Three for the Road —yes, another three-character nostalgic TV show—is special. Directed by film great Marty DiGennaro ( A Woman Matters, Back Streets, Trouble in the Tower ), the heir-apparent to George Cukor as a woman’s director, the show has captured the style and the angst of the nineties, while delving into the fun and psychic scars of the sixties at the same time. DiGennaro, the Sultan of Style, has given us more form than function, but what forms! The three co-stars—Sharleen Smith, Jahne Moore and Lila Kyle (SEE: P ERSONALITIES , this issue)—popped up out of nowhere, and, under DiGennaro’s aegis, have developed into the personification of all that was good and beautiful in America. Great? Far from it. But a phenomenon in the impact it has made on the psyche of the television viewing public (now greatly expanded because of this show) cannot be in doubt. Quirkier than Northern Exposure , more stylish than David Lynch at his weirdest, hotter than Miami Vice ever was, Three for the Road has got legs—six of them. At a cost of more than a million dollars an episode, the shows are a pastiche of actual archive clips, new footage, and special effects. Like a gripping miniseries, the show has garnered a weekly audience that few specials can boast—and it goes on, week after week. While some critics carp that it trivializes its time (one asked what it would do next—have Cara date Martin Luther King?) its popularity has revived the lagging Network. Without question, the repercussions of this program, not only on future programming but also on how television programming as it is conceived, will be felt at Studio City in the very highest echelons in the lofty aeries of Executiveville. — Time magazine