HOPE FOR CHANGE... But Settle for a Bailout (14 page)

“No, Carl....”

“… never returns or stops her,” injects von
Sommerberg.

“She dances for Lander,” said Lena. “She is
pregnant by Lander. No one denies it. And now, after she is
retired, the Dame raises another dancer, a sixth generation to take
the Royal stage, and another Principal Dancer.”

“No one here will care,” said Larry.

Lena looked at von Sommerberg, and then to
Larry. “This movie is not for Americans,” she said. “Of course,
some will see it. That’s bound to happen, but this....”

“This is a movie for Danes,” said von
Sommerberg, “about Danes and it will be in a style of filmmaking
that Danes invented.” Von Sommerberg finished his fish.

“My grandmother was horn in America,” said
Larry. “And you didn’t invent the movies. Thomas Edison....”

“Dogme,” said von Sommerberg. “Dogme95. This
film will meet the Vow of Chastity,” he said, nodding his head, and
looking to Lena, who, upon his looking her way, also began nodding.
She stopped when he looked back to the panoramic view out the
window.

“We are here to arrange financing, which
traditionally is the challenge with Dogme films,” said Lena. “We
met my contacts in Connecticut earlier and hopefully Tres….”

“The director,” corrected von
Sommerberg.

“Yes, hopefully the director’s contacts here
in San Francisco will consider the presentation we made this
morning,” said Lena.

“You don’t have any money then,” said Larry,
finishing his beer. “But you already know what yer gonna say, even
though you haven’t met my grandmother. What’s that style called
again? Oh yeh… ‘lying.’ “

“Everybody’s got their little stories,” said
von Sommerberg, pouring the last of his beer in his glass and
smiling.

.

“We are going to be driving some of windy
parts of Highway One past dark,” I said to the three drunken people
shambling towards the car. “Here we go, I guess.”

Larry and the director piled into the rear
seat, wedging themselves in, as Lena and I each slid our seats
back. I felt the twin bony lumps of Larry’s knees in the small of
my back.

At first, the two-lane, tightly-turning
roadway seemed to thrill the drunken passengers, with each windy
turn eliciting prolonged “woooooo” sounds. After several of the
most harrowing turns, the silence of the Prius and the image of the
headlights shining onto a paltry railing separating the roadway
from a plunge into the abyss prompted even me to sense panic. The
“oooo” sounds were replaced by cussing in English – and, I assumed,
Danish. By the time that fog and darkness had fully set in, von
Sommerberg was openly calling for God’s intervention to save them
and Lena would repeat every few minutes that this fog was thicker
than anything in Copenhagen. Larry had fallen asleep.

.

“It feels straight now,” said Lena. “Is it
straight now?”

“There is flat land on both sides of the
road now,” said von Sommerberg. “My sweet God.”

“What if you don’t find financing?” I asked,
as Larry snored.

“Well,” said Lena, “if there are no
investors, there can be no film.”

“It’s not so much bad for me,” said von
Sommerberg, “as the director is not credited on screen, but this is
bad to Lena, also as producer, and to Ingeborg’s daughter. This is
her story. This is Denmark’s story.”

“And Emma Mathilde’s,” said Lena.

“Oh, yes,” said von Sommerberg, “her,
too.”

.

“Heya,” said Larry, into his phone, as he
stood on the balcony of the Motel 6, before the final push into Los
Angeles. “Make it back okay? Did the dude press charges? That’s
good, but getting canned sucks. Maybe you can work for me…. Think
about it? Okay, well, bye.”

Larry and I leaned against the railing, each
of us watching Lena through the open curtains, folding clothes and
putting a garment onto the ironing board. Down the long hallway,
von Sommerberg’s heavy boots shook the entire balcony as the
morning sunshine reflected off the grotesquely-oversized lens as he
approached us. We the director reached us, we all turned to see
Lena, in jeans and a white brassier, ironing a blouse.

“A truly lovely day,” said the director,
“and next we are in Los Angeles!”

“Long Beach,” I said at the same time as
Larry.

“Long Beach,” said von Sommerberg. A few
moments later, Lena, now dressed, wheeled her bag to the door,
closed the curtains, and then came outside with her things “Great,
really great.”

.

“How much does a film like you’re making
cost to produce?” I asked, as Lena looked out at the scenery along
the Ventura coast. “Not so much,” she said. “Nothing like
Hollywood. That is why Dogme95 is really good. The money is to pay
for story, not sets or car crashes.”

“So, like…, what?” I asked. “Ten million?
Twenty?”

“Dogma95 is cheap,” interrupted von
Sommerberg, as Larry snored, “but it is not
that
cheap.
Fifty million, sixty million kroner, at least.”

I barely heard the fifty and sixty through
Larry’s snorts and snoring. “That’s a lot. And for a film about a
ballerina’s daughter. You don’t think that’s risky?”

“This is Harald Lander’s love child’s kid,”
said von Sommerberg.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I have no idea who
Harald Lander is…. Just never learned that name.”

“Do you know our country has a
monarchy?”

“A king? Yeh, you’re telling me,” I
said.

“We have a Queen, actually, right now, but,
okay,” said Lena. “And you’ve heard of ballet?”

“The dancing? Of course. My wife danced
ballet as a kid.”

“Is that Lori, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“How long did she dance the ballet?” asked
Lena, earnestly.\

“Oh, I don’t know… when she was a kid.”

“Interesting,” said Lena. “Anyway, how old
is your country?”

“America?”

“Right? How old are The States?” asked
Lena.

“Born 1776.”

“The Royal Danish Theatre was founded in
1748. Harald Lander came to be Artistic Director in 1932 and was
really great. He was truly, really great,” said von Sommerberg.

“He was really something,” added Lena “He
saw Astrid dance here, in California, when he visited in the ‘20s.
She left to dance ‘The Widow in the Mirror.’ It is said she was his
inspiration to write ‘Etudes.” And so, you see, it is a movie about
much more than your friend’s grandmother. She can be important to
the story, too. There are so many fragments.”

.

Lena and Tres walked along the Venice
boardwalk, wide-eyed and smiling; the director pointing his
oversized lens at musclebound men, at times with Lena posing with,
or hanging from one, or more, of the men. They walked in front of
Larry and me, filming a man in a saffron body suit as he contorted
himself before the silent crowd. Tap-tap-tapping to our side led us
past a man sitting at a folding wooden typing stand, with a manual
portable, advertising “Finished Letters: $5/pg.” Across from the
for-hire-correspondent were three women, in brown matching
uniforms, singing Andrews Sisters’ tunes. A brunette in a scant
bikini handed me a postcard . On the card was an incredibly hot
woman wearing something triple-XXX you might also see on the July
4
^th
holiday and pointing: “PharmaGreen Wants You!” I
handed the card back and kept walking.

I drew close alongside Larry, slowing so we
fell increasingly out of earshot of the Danes.

“Just an idea,” I said, “but your money
would probably allow you to buy your way into the movie they’re
making.”

“Why would I want to be in their movie?”

“No, for your grandmother?”

“From everything I see,” said Larry, “I
can’t imagine her wanting to be in it, either.”

“No,” I said, as the Danes turned, their
faces lit up like kids, and approached us.

“This is really amazing,” said von
Sommerberg. “Really amazing. It’s too bad Astrid didn’t wind up
here. This would be the perfect place to shoot a movie.”

“It’s a fantastic place to shoot a movie,”
came a voice from behind the director.

Von Sommerberg turned back around and, with
the camera back on his shoulder, perhaps his peripheral vision was
blocked, as the camera bumped into a hulking man on a bicycle,
nearly toppling both, save for exceptional riding by each.

“Oh my God,” said Lena. “It’s Arnold
Schwarzenegger.”

“Put dat down! You’re gonna hurt someone,”
said California’s former Governor, to Tres. “Say, is dat a
microphone in your pants or are you just pleased to see me?”
Schwarzenegger said to Lena. “What’tar you shoo-teeng?”

“Feature-length dogme story for the European
market,” said von Sommerberg.

“I thought the Dogme95 is dead,” said
Schwarzenegger. “Even von Trier and Vinterberg have moved on.”

The director circled Schwarzenegger, who
smiled into the camera while continuing to flirt with Lena, asking
if she wanted to feel his bicep.

“Larry,” I said, in a hushed voice, “these
two have no money. With a small business investment representing
only a portion of what you’ve won, you could at once become their
principal investor and dictate the film they make.”

Thirty feet away, von Sommerberg
photographed his producer running her hands over Arnold
Schwarzenegger’s arm, as he flexed and smiled to her.

“It’s a thought, I suppose,” said Larry.

Chapter Ten

Fishing for Help

A cat, with a small fish hanging from its
mouth, ran past Larry and I, as we walked slowly along the Belmont
Pier, its concrete a gray that matched the morning haze. Asian and
Hispanic families stood watch over poles that did not twitch. The
cat, no longer carrying a fish, walked past families, staking out a
spot near several plastic five-gallon buckets.

“I don’t want a lot of people,” said
Larry.

“We can do this several different ways,” I
said. “People can work directly under your employ, or you can pay
me to be your representative and I can contract with a firm, or
with individual talent,”

“That sounds confusing,” said Larry. “I just
want people – the same people – who do what I tell ‘em and don’t
make me think up stupid questions and when I explain things, it
isn’t over and over.” Larry leaned onto the north-facing railing of
the pier, shaggy curls waggling in all directions, unkempt
animation against his dull expression and the backdrop of a grand
luxury liner, a beachfront of high-rise residential buildings and a
working port.

“If you want a team that you hire and we all
work directly for you, then we should fix a sum for an annual
budget, and I will hire based against that,” I said. “We can
probably start off with two or three other people... a tax person,
an investment advisor, at minimum, and a person to make sure it all
keeps running.”

“That’s Lori.”

“Oh no,” I said quickly.

“No, she would keep things running,” said
Larry.

The cat, with another fish, ran past us
hugging the rail, as a small child bumped into me, chasing it.
“Fuck!” I said, as the child careened off my leg and continued
running.

“C’mon,” said Larry. “There’s kids around
here.”

.

“Why do I have to be part of your team?’
Lori asked Larry, as each lay on a wooden lounger in his courtyard.
Lori, her face covered by a folded towel, reached over to the small
table separating their loungers and lifted her glass of ice water,
with its slice of lemon.

“You know Lawrence’s failings,” said Larry,
“so if he’s about to hire someone who he can’t see their problems,
you can give me an alert.”

Lori leaned up, moved the towel slightly,
sipped her water, and set the glass down and returned the towel to
cover her face.

“If Lawrence works in banking and he can’t
see someone’s failings, how on earth would I know that someone
won’t work out?”

“Cuz I have no clue about this stuff,” said
Larry, “and you were in the army. That means you can tell... about
people.”

“Larry, I appreciate it, but I don’t know if
I can actually, really work for you,” said Lori. “I mean, the
coffee thing’s done, but they’re not challenging the unemployment,
so I have something coming in while I look, and why fuck up a good
friendship, you know?”

“Lori, please,” said Larry. “You’re the one
person in the world I can trust. You don’t really have to work,
like, in an office kind of thing. I don’t care if you do any work
at all but I can’t do this alone. I need someone I can totally rely
on to be at my side. I need you on my team, Lori. Please.”

Lori turned to her side, adjusting the towel
so it covered the side of her face, leaving no skin above her neck
exposed to the sun. “I don’t know, Bixie. I’ll think about it. I’m
kind’a thinkin’ about a lot right now….”

“Like December?” said Larry.

“Like going back in.”

“What? The army?”

“Thinking about it.”

“But then you won’t be here. You’ll be off
fighting in a war,” said Larry.

“Bix, I’m burning out on this ‘find myself’’
thing,” said Lori, sipping water, laying back down and readjusting
the towel. “At least I know where things stand as an E6. Go to bed;
not have to guess or worry.”

“What about the whole killed thing? And what
about December? Don’t’chu like her? And doesn’t she like you?”

“I haven’t told Dee, okay, so don’t say
anything…. Okay? Larry?”

“Yeh, okay,” said Larry.

“I don’t want to have to explain something
that I’m still thinking out,” said Lori, her body limp on the
wooden lounger. “Larry! Promise!”

“Okay, okay… I promise.”

.

When I walked in to the Jack-in-the-Box near
the Belmont Pier, Larry awkwardly lifted one hand, as though
otherwise I might miss him in the lightly populated fast food
joint. As I drew closer to the table, Lori approached from the
other side, exiting the restroom.