Authors: Douglas Kennedy
Did he have any sort of aspirations . . . when all his earthly wants had been already met? And how did a lack of material ambition alter one’s world view? Did you concentrate on the more cerebral things in life, aspiring to great thoughts and deeds? Maybe you became a latter-day philosopher king, a Medici Prince? Or did you turn into a Borgia Pope?
I was becoming pampered after just one day at Chez Fleck. And – dare I say it – I was liking it. My latent entitlement complex was coming to the fore – and I was rapidly accepting the idea that there was an entire staff on this island ready to meet just about any request I made. On the boat, Gary told me if I felt like going to Antigua for the day, he’d be happy to arrange a trip on the chopper. Or, for that matter, if I needed to go farther afield, the Gulfstream was sitting idle at Antigua Airport, and could be summoned whenever required.
‘That’s very kind of you,’ I said. ‘But I think I’ll just stay here and kick back.’
And kick back I most certainly did. That night after the chef’s exquisite Pacific Rim-style bouillabaisse (accompanied by an equally astonishing Au Bon Climat Chardonnay) I sat alone in the cinema and watched a double bill of two classic Fritz Lang films:
Beyond a Reasonable Doubt
and
The Big Heat
. Instead of popcorn, Meg popped in occasionally with a tray of Belgian chocolates and a 1985 Bas Armagnac. Afterwards, Chuck came into the screening room and went into a long spiel about Fritz Lang’s adventures in Hollywood. He was so damn knowledgeable regarding just about everything on celluloid that I encouraged him to join me in an Armagnac and tell me a bit about himself. It seemed he’d first met Philip Fleck when they were both students together at NYU back in the early seventies.
‘This was way,
way
before Phil was anything like rich. I mean, I knew his dad owned this paper-packaging place back in Wisconsin – but mainly, he was just another guy who wanted to direct, living in a crappy apartment on 11th and 1st Avenue. He spent his free time at the Bleecker Street Cinema or the Thalia or the New Yorker, or any of those other long-vanished Manhattan revival houses. That’s how Phil and I became friends – we kept running into each other at these little cinemas, and we thought nothing of watching four films a day.
‘Anyway, Phil was always determined to do the
auteur
thing, whereas my big dream was simply to run my very own cinema, and maybe get the occasional article into some fancy European film magazine like
Sight and Sound
or
Cahiers du Cinema
. Then, during our second year at NYU, Phil’s dad died, and he had to head back to Milwaukee to run the family business. We lost contact with each other completely, though I certainly knew what was going on with him – because when he made his first cool billion by taking the paper company public, it was all over the papers. And then, when he pulled off all those investment coups and became . . . well,
Philip Fleck
. . . I couldn’t get over it. My old cinephile pal, now a multi-billionaire.
‘Then, one day, out of the blue, I get this phone call from Phil himself. He’d tracked me down to Austin where I was, like, the assistant film archivist at U Texas. Not a bad job, even though I was only making about twenty-seven grand a year. I couldn’t believe it was him on the phone.
‘“How the hell did you find me?”,’ I asked him.
‘“I’ve got people who do that sort of stuff for me,” he said. And then he got right to the point: he wanted to create his very own film archive . . . the biggest private one in America . . . and he wanted me to run it for him. Before he even told me what he was going to pay me, I accepted. I mean, this was the chance of a lifetime – to create a great archive . . . and for one of my best buddies.’
‘So now you go where he goes?’
‘You’ve got it in one, pal. The chief archive is at a warehouse near his place in San Francisco, but he’s also got divisions of it at each of his other houses. I’m in charge of a team of five who run the main archive, but I also travel with him wherever he goes, so he can have me on tap whenever he wants me. He takes film very seriously, Phil.’
I bet he does. Because you’ve got to be an extreme movie
buff to employ your very own full-time archivist to cart along behind you, just in case you get a late-night craving for an early Antonioni, or simply must talk about Eisenstein’s theory of montage while watching the sun set over the Saffron Island palm trees.
‘Sounds like a great job,’ I said.
The best,’ Chuck said.
I had another seamless night’s sleep – a true sign that, after just a day here, I really was beginning to unwind. I didn’t set an alarm clock or book a wake-up call. I simply woke when I woke – which was close to eleven am again, and discovered another note shoved under my door.
Dear Mr Armitage
I hope you slept really well. Just to let you know that we heard from Mr Fleck this morning. He sends you his best wishes, and his regrets that he is going to be delayed for another three days. But he will definitely be back here on Monday morning, and hopes you will continue to enjoy the run of the island until then. He said, should you want to do anything, go anywhere in particular, set up any activities of any kind, we should accommodate you.
In other words, Mr Armitage, pick up the phone and phone me whenever. We’re at your service.
Hope we can make this another great day for you in paradise.
Best
Gary
So the marlin were biting and Philip Fleck had decided that I still wasn’t as important as a bunch of fish. For some strange reason, I didn’t care. If he wanted to keep me waiting, so be it.
Before I tackled such demanding things as deciding what to order for breakfast, I steeled myself for a brief encounter with my e-mail. But this morning’s communiqués didn’t bring grief. On the contrary, there was a most reconciliatory e-mail from Sally:
Darling
Apologies, apologies. In the midst of battle, I forgot who my true ally was – to the point where I was feeling irascible about everything. Thank you for your wonderful e-mail. Thank you even more for understanding.
I’m in New York, billeted at the Pierre . . . which isn’t exactly the worst address imaginable. I came here at the behest of Stu Barker, who needed to go to New York to meet some of the major suits at Fox’s corporate HQ. And he wanted me to be there, to discuss our planned autumn slate. Anyway, we flew domestic (he shrewdly didn’t want to come across like some big swinging arriviste by insisting on a company jet the moment he stepped into Levy’s shoes). All the way to New York, he couldn’t have been more charming – a complete
volte face
. And he told me that he really wanted to work with me, really needed me on his team – and he wanted to put the years of enmity behind us. ‘My
mishegas
was with Levy, not you,’ he told me.
Anyway, we’ve got the big Fox meeting a couple of hours from now. Naturally, I’m anxious – because (to be blunt about it) it’s important that I shine – both in front of the big boys and my new boss. I wish you were here to hug me (and do other things as well . . . but I won’t get crude in cyberspace). I’ll try to call later today, but I think we’re going to fly back to the Coast right after the meeting. I hope you’re getting a tan for the two of us. Fleck Island sounds amazing.
I love you.
Sally
Well, that was an improvement. Obviously, Stu Barker turning palsy-walsy also improved her spirits – but there’s nothing like an apology from the woman you love to kick off the morning on a high note.
But there was even better news to come – because while I was online, the New Mail prompt began to flash on my screen. I switched over and found the following message from Alison:
Hey, Superstar
Hope you’re pleasantly sunstruck and lolling in a hammock right now – because I’ve got some major good news:
You’ve just been nominated for an Emmy.
God help all of us who will now have to contend with your even more inflated ego (joke).
I’m thrilled for you, David. I’m also thrilled for me, because I know I can jack up your fee for the next series by 25 per cent. Which, if you do the math . . .
To quote King Lear, you’ve done good, fella. Can I be your date for the awards . . . or will Sally throw a hissy?
Love
Alison
By the end of the day, I was pleasantly delirious from all the congratulations I’d received. Brad Bruce rang me on the island, telling me how delighted the entire
Selling You
team was for me . . . even though they were still rather pissed at the Emmy people for making me the show’s one nomination. The head of FRT comedy – Ned Sinclair – also rang. Ditto two of the actors. And I received congratulatory e-mails from around a dozen friends and associates in our so-called industry.
Best of all, Sally ducked out of her meeting in New York to phone me.
‘Halfway through the meeting, an assistant to one of the Fox guys came in with a list of the Emmy nominations. Of course, the suits immediately pored over it, to see how many nominations the network received. Then, one of them looked up at me and said: “Isn’t your boyfriend David Armitage?” And that’s when he told me. I nearly screamed. I am so damn proud of you. And I have to tell you, it also made me look pretty damn good in front of the big boys.’
‘How’s it going in there?’
‘I can’t really talk right now . . . but, by and large, we’re winning.’
We
? As in Sally and the delightful Stu Barker – the guy she once described as the Heinrich Himmler of television comedy?
‘Sounds like the two of you have really bonded,’ I said.
‘I still don’t trust him whatsoever,’ she said in a whisper. ‘But, at the same time, it’s better to have him on my side than aiming his tactical nukes in my direction. Anyway, I don’t want to bore you with office politics . . . ’
‘You never bore me, my love.’
‘And you are the sweetest, most talented man alive.’
‘Now I really will get a swelled head.’
‘Do. You deserve it.’
‘Listen,’ I said, ‘Mein Host is still big-fish hunting in the adjacent islands, and he won’t be back until Monday. But I’ve been given carte blanche on the island, which means that I could actually get them to send the Gulfstream to New York to pick you up and bring you back down here.’
‘Oh God, I’d love to, sweetheart . . . but I’ve got to go back to LA with Stu. It’s kind of critical that I keep this bonding thing going. And he wants to do some serious planning stuff with me at the office on Sunday.’
‘I see,’ I said.
‘If it hadn’t been for this crisis at work, you know I’d be there with you right now.’
‘I do understand.’
‘Good,’ she said. Anyway, I just wanted to say how fantastic your news is . . . and that I love you . . . and that I really do have to get back to this meeting. I’ll call you tomorrow when I’m home.’
And before I had a chance to say goodbye myself, the line went dead. My five-minute window with Sally had closed.
My insecurity was quickly subdued by another night of being waited on, and by drinking an absurdly good Morgon
’75, and by watching another double feature (Billy Wilder’s
Ace in the Hole
and Kubrick’s
The Killing
), and by being presented with a cake (personally designed by the island’s pastry chef) in the shape of an Emmy Award.
‘How did you know about my nomination?’ I asked Gary when he brought the cake into the screening room, accompanied by six of the staff.
‘Hey, news travels fast.’
This was a world where everything was known about you, where all requests were granted, where no detail was considered too small. You received exactly what you wanted, when you wanted it. In the process, you became the walking equivalent of a detached retina – blinded to external realities.
Not that I minded being a tourist in such a rarefied realm. But though I vowed not to do any work on the island, when Joan from Business Affairs showed up with my freshly typed script, I found myself quickly sprawled in the hammock on my balcony, red pen in hand. The new version was around eight pages shorter. Its pace was brisk, jazzy. The dialogue was snappier – and less self-knowing. The plot points were hit with ease. But – on a second reading – I found much of the third act now felt contrived: the aftermath of the robbery and the way all involved turned on each other seemed just a little
by the book
. So, over the course of the weekend, I redrafted the entire final thirty-one pages – and fell into the self-absorbed chasm of work. Despite the continued gorgeous weather, I locked myself in my room for all but three hours a day, and finished the job by six pm Sunday night. Joan from Business Affairs showed up shortly thereafter, and collected the forty or so
pages of yellow legal foolscap upon which I had drafted the reworked Act Three. I celebrated with a slug of champagne. I spent an hour lolling in a hot tub. Then I dined on soft-shell crab and drank half a bottle of some wonderful New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc. Around ten that night, Joan showed up with the retyped pages.
‘You’ll have them back by midnight,’ I said.
‘Thank you, sir.’
I delivered the pages by the deadline required and fell into bed. I slept late. The newly bound screenplay arrived with breakfast, along with a note:
‘We’ve just heard from Mr Fleck. He’s received your screenplay and he’s planning to read it as soon as possible. Unfortunately, he is again delayed at sea, but will be returning on Wednesday morning, and looks forward to seeing you then.’
My first reaction to this missive was a simple one:
Go fuck yourself, pal
.
I’m not going to sit around here, waiting for you to grace me with your presence
. But when I called Sally on her cellphone in LA and told her that Fleck was yanking my chain by delaying his return, she said, ‘What do you expect? The guy can do what he wants. So, of course, he
will
do what he wants. Anyway, my love, you are just the writer . . . ’
‘Hey, thanks a lot.’
‘Come on, you know how the food chain works. The guy might be an amateur, but he’s still got the money. And that makes him king of the hill . . . ’