by Mario Puzo
“Right,” Vail said. “I’m melancholy and so I’m more sen-sitive than you?” They both laughed and then she was hug-ging him.
“Thank you for being honest,” she said.
“Don’t get too cocky,” Vail said. “Like my mother always said, ‘Life is like a box of hand grenades, you never know what will blow you to kingdom come.’ ”
Claudia was laughing when she said, “Christ, do you always have to sound the note of doom? You’ll never be a movie writer and that line shows it.”
“But it’s more truthful,” Vail said.
Before they finished their collaboration on the script, Claudia dragged him into bed. She was fond enough of him that she wanted to see him with his clothes off so they could really talk, really exchange confidences.
As a lover Vail was far more enthusiastic than he was expert. He was also more grateful than most men. Best of all, he loved to talk after sex, his nakedness did not inhibit his lecturing, his intemperate judgments. And Claudia loved his nakedness. With his clothes off he seemed to have a monkey’s agility and impetuousness, and he was very hairy: a matted chest, patches of furry hair on his back. Also, he was as greedy as a monkey, clutching her naked body as if she were a fruit hanging from a tree. His appetite amused Claudia. She relished the inherent comedy of sex. And she loved that he was famous all over the world, that she had seen him on TV and thought him a little pompous on literature, the grievous moral state of the world, so dignified clutching the pipe he rarely smoked and looking very professorial in his tweed jacket with sewn-leather elbow patches. But he was far more amusing in bed than on TV; he did not have an actor’s projection.
There was never any talk of true love, of a “relationship.” Claudia had no need for it and Vail had only a literary sense of the term. They both accepted that he was thirty years the elder and, aside from that, no bargain really except for his fame. They had nothing in common except literature, perhaps the worst basis for establishing a marriage, they agreed.
But she loved arguing with him about movies. Vail insisted that moving pictures were not art, that they were a regression to the primitive paintings found in lost caves. That film had no language, and since the progression of the human species depended on language, it was merely a regressive, minor art.
Claudia said, “So painting is not an art, Bach and Beethoven are not art, Michelangelo is not art. You’re talking bullshit.” And then she realized he was teasing her, that he enjoyed provoking her, though prudently only after sex.
By the time they were both fired from the script, they were really close friends. And before Vail went back to New York, he gave Claudia a tiny, lopsided ring with four different colored jewels. It didn’t look expensive but it was a valuable antique that he spent a lot of time looking for. She always wore it thereafter. It became in her mind a lucky talisman.
But when he left, their sexual relationship was over. When and if he ever returned to L.A. she would be in the middle of another affair. And he recognized that their sex had been more friendship than passion.
Her farewell gift to him was a thorough education in the ways of Hollywood. She explained to him that their script was being rewritten by the great Benny Sly, the legendary rewriter of scripts, who had even been mentioned for a special Academy Award for rewrites. And that Benny Sly specialized in turning uncommercial stories into one-hundred-million-dollar blockbusters. Undoubtedly he would turn Vail’s book into a movie that Vail would hate but that would surely make a lot of money.
Vail shrugged. “That’s okay,” he said. “I have ten percent of the net profits. I’ll be rich.”
Claudia looked at him with exasperation. “Net?” she cried out. “Do you buy Confederate money too? You’ll never see a penny no matter how much the movie makes. LoddStone has a genius for making money disappear. Listen, I had net on five pictures that made a ton of money and I never saw a penny. You won’t either.”
Vail shrugged again. He did not seem to care, which made his actions in the years to follow even more puzzling.
Claudia’s next affair made her remember Ernest saying life was like a box of hand grenades. For the first time, despite her intelligence, she fell guardedly in love with a completely unsuitable man. He was a young “genius” director. After that she fell deeply and unguardedly in love with a man who most women in the world would have fallen in love with. Equally unsuitable.
The initial flush of ego that she could attract such primary alpha males was quickly dampened by how they treated her.
The director, an unlikable ferret of a man only a few years older than she, had made three offbeat movies that not only were critical successes but had made a goodly sum of money. Every studio wanted a relationship with him. LoddStone Studios gave him a three-picture deal and also gave him Claudia to rewrite the script he was planning to shoot.
One of the elements of the director’s genius was that he had a clear vision of what he wanted. At first he condescended to Claudia because she was a woman and a writer, both inferior in the power structure of Hollywood. They quarreled immediately.
He asked her to write a scene she felt did not belong to the structure of the plot. On its own Claudia recognized that the scene would be a flashy bit that would be just a show-off scene for the director.
“I can’t write that scene,” Claudia said. “It does nothing for the story. It’s just action and camera.”
The director said curtly. “That’s why they’re movies. Just do it the way we discussed it.”
“I don’t want to waste your time and mine,” Claudia said. “Just go write with your fucking camera.”
The director didn’t waste time even getting angry. “You’re fired,” he said. “Off the picture.” He clapped his hands.
But Skippy Deere and Bobby Bantz made them reconcile, which was only possible because the director had become intrigued by her stubbornness. The picture was a success, and Claudia had to admit this was more because of the director’s talent as a moviemaker than hers as a writer. Quite simply she had not been able to see the director’s vision. They fell into bed almost by accident, but the director proved to be a disappointment. He refused to be naked, he made love with his shirt on. But still Claudia had dreams of the two of them making great movies together. One of the great director-writer teams of all time. She was quite willing to be the subordinate partner, to make her talent serve his genius. They would create great art together and become a legend. The affair lasted a month, until Claudia finished her “spec” script of Messalina and showed it to him. He read it and tossed it aside. “A piece of feminist bullshit with tits and ass,” he said. “You’re a clever girl but it’s not a picture I want to waste a year of my life making.”
“It’s only a first draft,” Claudia said.
“Jesus, I hate people taking advantage of a personal relationship to get a movie made,” the director said.
In that moment Claudia fell completely out of love with him. She was outraged. “I don’t have to fuck you to make a movie,” she said.
“Of course you don’t,” the director said. “You’re talented and you have your reputation of being one of the great pieces of ass in the movie business.”
Now Claudia was horrified. She never gossiped about her sexual partners. And she hated his tone, as if women were somehow shameful for doing what men did.
Claudia said to him, “You have talent, but a man who fucks with his shirt on has a worse reputation. And at least I never got laid by promising someone a screen test.”
That was the end of their relationship, and it had started her thinking of Dita Tommey as the director. She decided that only a woman could do justice to her script.
Well, what the hell, Claudia thought. The bastard never got totally naked and he didn’t like to talk after sex. He was truly a genius in film but he had no language. And for a genius he was a truly uninteresting man, except when he talked movies.
Now Claudia was approaching the great curve of the Pacific Coast Hi
ghway that showed the ocean as a great mirror by reflecting the cliffs to her right. It was her favorite spot in the world, natural beauty that always thrilled her. It was only ten minutes to the Malibu Colony, where Athena lived. Claudia tried to formulate her plea: to save the movie, to make Athena return. She remembered that at different times in their lives they had had the same lover, and she felt a flush of pride that the man who had loved Athena could love her.
The sun was at its most brilliant now. It polished the waves of the Pacific into huge diamonds. Claudia braked suddenly. She thought one of the gliders was coming down in front of her car. She could see the glider, a young girl with one tit hanging out of her blouse, give a demure wave as she sailed onto the beach. Why were they allowed, why didn’t the police appear? She shook her head and pressed the gas pedal. Traffic was loosening and the highway swerved so that she could no longer see the ocean, though in a half mile it would reappear. Like true love, Claudia thought smilingly. True love in her life always reappeared.
When she truly fell in love, it was a painful but educational experience. And it was not really her fault, for the man was Steve Stallings, a Bankable Star and idol of women all over the world. He had a fearful masculine beauty, genuine charm, and an enormous vivacity that was fueled by the prudent use of cocaine. He also had great talent as an actor. More than anything else, he was a Don Juan. He screwed everything in sight—on location in Africa, in a small town in the American West, in Bombay, Singapore, Tokyo, London, Rome, Paris. He did this in the spirit of a gentleman giving alms to the poor, an act of Christian charity. There was never any question of a relationship, no more than a beggar would be invited to a benefactor’s dinner party. He was so enchanted by Claudia that the affair lasted twenty-seven days.
It was a humiliating twenty-seven days for Claudia despite the pleasure. Steve Stallings was an irresistible lover, with the help of cocaine. He was more comfortable being naked than even Claudia. The fact that he had a perfectly proportioned body helped. Often Claudia caught him inspecting himself in the mirror in much the same way as a woman adjusting her hat.
Claudia knew she was just a lesser concubine. When they had dates he would always call her to say he would be an hour late and then would arrive six hours later. Sometimes he would cancel altogether. She was only his fallback position for the night. Also, when they made love he would always insist she use cocaine with him, which was fun but turned her brain into such mush she could not work the next few days, and what she did write, she distrusted. She realized that she was becoming what she detested more than anything else in the world: a woman whose whole life depended on the whims of a man.
She was humiliated by the fact that she was his fourth or fifth choice, but she didn’t really blame him. She blamed herself. After all, at this point in his fame Steve Stallings could have almost any woman in America and he had chosen her. Stallings would grow old and less beautiful, he would become less famous and use more and more cocaine. He had to cash in during his prime. She was in love and, for one of the few times in her life, terribly unhappy.
So on the twenty-seventh day when Stallings called to say he would be an hour late, she told him, “Don’t bother, Steve, I’m leaving your geisha house.”
There was a pause, and when he answered he did not seem surprised. “We part friends I hope,” he said. “I really enjoy your company.”
“Sure,” Claudia said and hung up. For the first time she did not want to remain friends at the end of an affair. What really bothered her was her lack of intelligence. It was obvious that all his behavior was a trick to make her go away, that it had taken her too long to take the hint. It was mortifying. How could she have been so dumb? She wept, but in a week she found she did not miss being in love at all. Her time was her own and she could work. It was a pleasure to get back to her writing with a head clear of cocaine and true love.
After her director genius of a lover had rejected her script, Claudia worked furiously for six months on the rewrite.
Claudia De Lena wrote her original screenplay of Messalina as a witty propaganda piece for feminism. But after five years in the movie business she knew that any message had to be coated with more basic ingredients, such as greed, sex, murder, and a belief in humanity. She knew she had to write great parts not only for her first choice, Athena Aquitane, but for at least three other female stars in lesser roles. Good female roles were so scarce that the script would attract top-name stars. And then, absolutely essential, the great villain—charming, ruthless, handsome, and witty. Here she drew on memories of her father.
Claudia at first wanted to approach a female independent producer with clout, but most studio heads who could green-light a picture were males. They would love the script but they would worry it would turn into too overt a propaganda piece with a female producer and a female director. They would want at least one male hand in there somewhere. Claudia had already decided that Dita Tommey would direct.
Tommey would certainly accept because it would be a megabudget film. Such a film if successful would put her in the Bankable class. Even if it failed it would enhance her reputation. A huge budget film that failed was sometimes more prestigious for a director than a small budget picture that made money.
Another reason was that Dita Tommey loved women exclusively and this picture would give her access to four beautiful famous women.
Claudia wanted Tommey because they had worked together on a picture a few years ago and it had been a good experience. She was very direct, very witty, very talented. Also she was not a “writer killer” director, who called in friends to rewrite and share credit. She never filed for writing credit on a film unless she contributed her fair share, and she was not a sexual harasser as were some directors and stars. Though the term “sexual harassment” could not really be used in the movie business, where the selling of sex appeal was part of the job.
Claudia made sure she sent the script to Skippy Deere on a Friday, he only read scripts carefully on weekends. She sent it to him because, despite his betrayals, he was the best producer in town. And because she could never let go completely on an old relationship. It worked. She got a call from him on Sunday morning. He wanted her to have lunch with him that very day.
Claudia threw her computer into her Mercedes and dressed to work: blue denim man’s shirt, faded blue jeans, and slip-on sneakers. She tied her hair back with a red scarf.
She took Ocean Avenue in Santa Monica. In the Palisades Park that separated Ocean Avenue from Pacific Coast High-way, she saw the homeless men and women of Santa Monica gathering for their Sunday brunch. Volunteer social workers brought their food and drink to them every Sunday in the fresh air of the park at wooden tables and benches. Claudia always took this route to watch them, to remind herself of that other world where people did not have Mercedeses and swimming pools and did not shop on Rodeo Drive. In the early years she often volunteered to serve food in the park, now she just sent a check to the church that fed them. It had become too painful to go from one world to the other, it blunted her desire to succeed. She could not avoid watching the men, so shabbily dressed, their lives in ruins, yet some of them curiously dignified. To live so without hope seemed to her an extraordinary thing, and yet it was just a question of money, that money she earned so easily writing movie scripts. What she earned in six months was more money than these men saw in their entire lives.
At Skippy Deere’s mansion in the Beverly Hills canyons, Claudia was led by the housekeeper to the swimming pool, with its bright blue-and-yellow cabanas. Deere was seated in a cushioned lounge chair. Beside him was the small marble table that held his phone and a stack of scripts. He was wearing his red-framed reading glasses that he only used at home. In his hand was a tall frosted glass of Evian water.
He sprang up and embraced her. “Claudia,” he said, “we have business to do fast.”
She was judging his voice. She could usually tell the reaction to her scripts by the tones of voices. There was the carefully mo
dulated praise that meant a definite “No.” Then there was the joyful, enthusiastic voice that expressed an unrestrained admiration and was almost always followed by at least three reasons why the script could not be bought; another studio was doing the same subject, the proper cast could not be assembled, the studios would not touch the subject matter. But Deere’s voice was that of the determined business man latching onto a good thing. He was talking money and controls. That meant “Yes.”
“This could be a very big picture,” he told Claudia. “Very, very big. In fact it can’t be small. I know what you’re doing, you’re a very clever girl, but I have to sell a studio on the sex. Of course I’ll sell it to the female stars on feminism. The male star we can get if you soften him a little, give him more moments as a good guy. Now I know you want to be an associate producer on this, but I call the shots. You can have your say, I’m open to reason.”
“I want to have my say on the director,” Claudia said.
“You, the studio, and the stars,” Deere said, laughing.
“I don’t sell it unless I get approval of the director,” Clau-dia said.
“Okay,” Deere said. “So first tell the studio you want to direct, then back down, and they’ll be so relieved that they’ll give you the approval.” He paused for a moment. “Who do you have in mind?”
“Dita Tommey,” Claudia said.
“Good. Clever,” Deere said. “Female stars love her. The Studio too. She brings everything in on budget, she doesn’t live off the picture. But you and I do the casting before we bring her on.”
“Who will you bring it to?” Claudia asked.
“LoddStone,” Deere said. “They go with me pretty much so we won’t have to fight too much about casting and directors. Claudia, you’ve written a perfect script. Witty, exciting, with a great point of view on early feminism and that’s hot today. And sex. You justify Messalina and all women. I’ll talk to Melo and Molly Flanders about your deal and she can talk to Business Affairs at LoddStone.”
