by Omar Tyree
I don’t know if Paully liked the name “Alexis” either, but he sure said it enough. I believe he was boycotting my real name. We also had a difference in opinion as to how my character would deal with the killing. He wanted violent rage, like a horror movie, and I wanted controlled calculation, like a Mel Gibson character. To make Paully feel better, I was trying my best to interpret things his way, and it had my body sore as hell by the second day of shooting.
At that moment, we were shooting a car scene where Alexis and one of the psychos swerve to a stop and go at it on a deserted roadside.
We backed up the scene and did it again, and I ended up bruising my chin in a kick move.
“Fuck!” I yelled out in pain.
Paully said, “Yeah, let’s get some of that pain on camera.”
I gave him an evil look, but I kept my thoughts to myself. They were paying me two million dollars, so I couldn’t complain.
“Let’s do it again. That was much better.”
We backed up and did it a fifth time, but after the kick move, I pulled out my hidden gun that was filled with blanks, and let off four unexpected shots into the bad guy.
Paully said, “What the hell was that? You weren’t supposed to shoot him yet. What happens to the build up?”
I looked at him and said, “It just felt right. I’m tired of kicking this motherfucker.”
Everyone laughed but Paully.
“It’s not in the script that way,” he complained.
“Well, let’s change the damn script,” I told him. “That was a good take. It was natural. You see how surprised he was when I shot him? He can’t act that well if he tried.”
Everyone was agreeing with me. It was very obvious that my reflex instincts had worked much better than a worn-out fight scene. It would also save us time.
“I think you’ve done enough changing of the script as it is,” Paully responded.
Our producer, The Don, had not made the trip out to Nevada with us. He sent an assistant producer named Catherine Belle instead. It was her job to step in as the peacemaker and make sure everything moved along as planned, and she was very efficient at her job.
“Paully, let’s just work with that,” Catherine stepped in and said. “It’s very hot out here, and we have too many stunt scenes to shoot today as it is.”
She didn’t say it outright to save Paully’s ego and everything, but Catherine agreed with my take as well. I could see it in her face when I did it.
Paully looked at her as if he wanted to curse her out. Many directors wouldn’t stand for a producer upstaging them, but again, Paully wasn’t an A-list guy, so he had to ride it out or be replaced on his own project.
He said, “Fine! Any-fucking-thing goes! Okay, let’s put the effects in on the kill.”
When I got a chance, I stepped aside with Catherine. “I’m gonna have to have a talk with him, or he’s gonna make this film a nightmare for all of us,” I told her.
“Good idea,” she said with a smile, “because I don’t want to keep stepping in.”
I said, “I know what you mean. I don’t think he likes either one of us.”
Once we had a long enough break and Paully made it back to his trailer, I went and knocked on his door.
“Yes!” He even answered his door irritated. He didn’t even know who it was yet.
I walked inside instead of telling him. He saw me and frowned. “Okay, what do you want to change now?” he asked me.
I took a seat and said, “Your attitude. Do you want to finish making this movie or what?”
He answered, “I wanted to make this movie years ago, before you ever heard of it.”
“So, what’s supposed to happen now? You want to fuck it up, and say, ‘I told you so; the black bitch wouldn’t work.’”
He actually grinned at it, as if those same thoughts were really on his mind.
I said, “Well, I have news for you. I’m staying, and I’m not gonna let myself look bad. So, if I were you, I’d try to make the best movie I can make out of this thing and move on to the next deal, unless you want to end up looking like a big baby being overruled on everything and ruin your chances on future projects.”
“Yeah, that’s easy for you to say,” he huffed at me, pulling out a cigarette.
“Well, next time, hold on to your film rights and push to have your vision made as is. That’s how I got here,” I responded to him.
“Yeah, yeah, everybody heard about your story.”
I looked at him and shook my head. I wasn’t doing too good of a job of making peace.
I said, “My breakout project could have been a Whoopi Goldberg or Demi Moore vehicle if I didn’t fight for my vision.”
He said, “Oh, yeah, well, why don’t you give me that rabbit’s foot that you slept with?”
I stood back up and finally said, “If you make this one look good, I’ve already been offered a sequel idea. But if you want to act like an asshole about it, we’ll just move on to someone else.”
I walked out of his trailer still uncertain about him. Some damn peacemaker I was. It sounded more like I was rubbing the whole deal in his face more than settling him down. However, my talk seemed to work. Paully became more relaxed over the next couple of days about his methods and overall vision. That only made me work harder for him, because I wanted to get along and make another good film. After all, I wasn’t satisfied with the twenty-eight million and change that Led Astray had pulled in. With Road Kill, I wanted to shoot for seventy million!
$ $ $
By our fifth day of shooting in Nevada, I was physically exhausted. We shot most of the other scenes that day so that I could rest. In the meantime, I had an interview with The Black American magazine.
A young sister reporter approached me in front of my trailer with a tape recorder and a cameraman, who wanted to snap pictures of me in my action gear. I had forgotten that I had agreed to do the interview. That’s just how tired I was.
The young sister commented, “These are the kind of American films that turn into blockbusters, one black star in the middle of Vanillaville.” She and her dreadlock-wearing cameraman were laughing about it.
I must admit, I was getting used to being around white people, and I was starting to understand how human they were along with everyone else. It wasn’t always a black and white thing.
I said, “If it’s not a good film, it won’t matter.” I didn’t even remember getting the sister’s name (I guess I forgot it in the heat), but the cameraman was named Jabari.
He said, “You have to admit though, this is how black stars are made, because you’ll stand out in this movie, like Eddie, Will, Whoopi, you name it. Chris Tucker. Even Richard Pryor made his mark in Vanillaville.”
They shared another laugh between them.
I’m sorry, but I didn’t even feel like talking that radical shit at the time. I had a movie to complete for two million dollars that I had already been paid half of.
I asked, “Is this a straight Q&A or what?” I was ready to get it over with.
The sister answered, “No, this is a feature story.”
I didn’t trust those two to write a damn feature on me. I could tell already, they had come to write a militant piece on blacks in Hollywood. They didn’t necessarily want to hear what I had to say. I would become a sound bite for their trite opinions. That was exactly why I had a new policy.
I said, “I don’t do feature stories anymore. Call your editors back and tell them I want a Q&A, and I want to see their okay in writing. We have a fax machine that you could use in the production trailer.”
The sister looked at me as if I had lost my mind, but so what? If she wanted to talk that militant shit, then write a commentary, don’t mix me up in it. Not saying that I had crossed over or anything, but I didn’t appreciate being a damn pawn either.
She said, “Well, we weren’t really prepared for a Q&A.”
“What, you don’t have any questions to ask me?” Of course she didn’t
, they just wanted me to respond to shit so that they could play me like a fool. I knew the damn game, and I was tired of it.
“Well, I had questions, you know, but not like a Q&A kind of thing.”
I said, “Well, you have time to come up with some. I’ll be here all day and all night. In the meantime, call and get that okay in writing from your editors.”
I know the sister wanted to call me all kind of names. I had just ruined her militant Hollywood story. I even chuckled at it. I liked my new policy. If they wanted to write a story that said I wasn’t available for comment, then fine. At least they wouldn’t have any quotes of mine that they could misuse. I didn’t mean to single out a black magazine, because my policy would stand with every one of them, as if I was the president of the United States.
The sister asked, “Well, how about we just hang around and get some action quotes while you’re shooting on the set?”
I shook it off. “Not with this movie,” I answered. “We have too many stunt scenes to shoot for you to be in the way. You could get hurt or something, and we don’t have any insurance on you.” I was saying any-damn-thing that came to mind to let the sister know that it would be my way or no way.
She sighed and finally went ahead to get the Q&A agreement in writing. When she returned with it, I signed it and told her to fax a copy back.
She stopped and asked me, “What’s the deal on this? You don’t trust me with a feature story, sister?”
I looked her dead in her brown eyes and answered, “No, and it has nothing to do with color. I would do the same thing if you were a white girl from People magazine. That’s just my new policy.”
She took a deep breath and went to fax the copy back. By that time, Jabari was laughing and shaking his head at the whole scene. I guess he figured that I was ego-tripping, but I wasn’t. I was simply protecting my intelligence for the story.
The sister made it back to me again, and was ready to get the interview under way. However, first she said, “Off the record, I read your book Flyy Girl when it first came out years ago, and now it just seems like your whole Hollywood mission is selling out all of the young sisters who related to what you went through growing up as a teenager in the ’hood. I mean, we all figured that you would get back with your first love and work it out on the black family side of things, and be more community related. You know what I’m saying? And I just wanted to say that to you for all of the sisters who really believed in your message. But now it seems like you’re all out for the love of money.”
I looked at Jabari, and he raised his brow at me as if to say, “Damn, she gave it to you!”
I was perfectly calm about it. I asked her, “How old are you?”
“Twenty-four,” she snapped at me.
“And how old were you when you first read my book?”
“Seventeen.”
“Did you go to college?”
“Yes I did.”
I nodded and said, “Good. And did you learn anything from my book?”
“I learned plenty.”
“Good. So, now that you’ve read and liked my book, you think that you can control my life now? Is that it?”
She backed down and responded, “I didn’t say that.”
“Well, what are you saying?”
“I’m saying that you led a lot of people a-stray.”
She was clever. I smiled at her. I said, “First of all, Victor married another woman, and I had to grow up from that. Second of all, no one can succeed with all that I’ve done up to this point because of money. Third of all, you need to read my next book, because you only know half of my story. Okay? You don’t know how hard I had to work to get here, nor do you know where I’m going. I turned down money to get to where I am today! And I’ll tell you another thing, while we’re talking about the so-called love of money. Nobody flew in to interview me when I was a damn schoolteacher in Philadelphia!”
I couldn’t help myself. The fire just rushed out of me and started growing:
“So, if you want to represent for the young sisters so much, then why don’t you go back to the ’hood and interview the brothers and sisters who are still there in Philadelphia, or Washington, D. C., and Baltimore, and New York, and Chicago. Why don’t you go and interview the broke, grassroots people in Atlanta, Dallas, Detroit, and in South Central Los Angeles?
“Better yet, why don’t you call your editors up and tell them that you’d rather do a story on a community activist instead of the sellout Hollywood sister, and see what they tell you?” I asked her. “But please don’t hold your breath, because you’ll die before they get back to you, since we’re talking about the love of money! You’re out here to interview me because I have money! So don’t get it twisted, sister. You know damn well how it works! If it don’t make money, it won’t make the press!”
I was incensed. The young sister had really pressed my damn button. She had no idea how much I had been through!
When she opened her mouth again, she nodded to me and showed me my respect. She said, “Well, you’re right, but that doesn’t mean that you can’t look out for the community in the films that you do decide on.”
“Films like what? The Queen of Harlem, so my own people, who asked for it, can ignore it when it comes out. How many people went to see Oprah Winfrey’s Beloved? I supported the movie.”
She said, “Well, nobody asked to see that movie. Oprah Winfrey doesn’t ask us what we want. She does her own thing.”
“Well, what do you want, sister?” I asked her. “Let me know.”
“How about making Flyy Girl into a movie?”
I asked, “And how many theaters do you expect me to be able to get?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes it does matter. Because if we don’t get enough theaters to show it in, we’ll have more of the shooting and fighting and all of that other nonsense.”
“How do you know that? You don’t have faith in us to go to the movies like we have any sense?” she asked me.
“The people who own the theaters don’t, and that’s all that counts.”
“Well, why don’t you make it into an HBO special.”
I shook my head and smiled. The young sister just didn’t get it. I said, “George Lucas gets the world with Star Wars, and I get a goddamned bubble-gum machine with HBO, right? Is that how it works? You’d rather have anything than the right thing? That’s why we can’t ever get the right thing; we’re always settling for less.”
She finally folded her cards and said, “Okay, well, let’s just do this interview then.”
“Good,” I told her.
She said, “Well, how did Terry McMillan get two of her books made into movies?”
“Is this a part of the interview?” I asked.
She smiled at me and said, “No.”
I answered, “Because Terry McMillan sold millions of copies of her books, that’s why? For the love of money is how Hollywood works. So if you want to see Flyy Girl, the movie, then you buy a million copies of the book first.”
The young sister laughed and shook her head. I know it sounded capitalistic of me to say something like that, but it was the truth. If Hollywood could not see an automatic return on their investment, then they were not trying to make it, not even HBO.
We finally got into the Q & A interview with her first question.
Q: “Is Hollywood the vehicle for strong black films to be made?”
A: “No,but independents will never get the job done for the mass community.”
Q: “What about Spike Lee’s movies?”
A: “What Spike Lee movie was ever filmed in Hollywood?”
Q: “I guess you’re right. His movies have mainly been in New York. Do you ever think that Hollywood will change, and black cinema will begin to address more of the normal people of Black America?”
A: “No. Nothing will change in Hollywood until Black America can own a thousand of their own movie theaters nationwide. So if you want something to change in
Hollywood with black cinema, then more black businessmen have to follow Magic Johnson’s lead and own their own theaters.”
$ $ $
I called my parents that night, just trying to stay in touch like I had promised. It must have been after three in the morning in Philadelphia, but my father said that it didn’t matter when I called, so . . .
“Do you know what time of night it is over here, Tracy?” my mother whined when she answered the phone.
I said, “I couldn’t sleep, and Dad said that I could call anytime.”
“Well, you talk to him then,” she joked, wearily.
I said, “I’m serious, Mom, I just needed to talk.”
“And you had to wait until this late at night to call?”
“We’re shooting a movie over here. I had to prepare for my scenes tomorrow.”
She took a breath and asked, “Okay, what’s on your mind?”
I said, “How do you really feel about my acting career, Mom?”
“I’m proud of you.”
“What about the sex scenes and stuff?”
She responded, “How you think you got here? America can be so damn childish about sex sometimes.”
I laughed. I didn’t expect my mother to be so crystal clear on that. I guess she said it because she was sleep talking or something, and the truth had slipped out.
“How would you feel about me making a Flyy Girl movie?” I asked her.
She chuckled and said, “Who would play me?”
“I don’t know. Lynn Whitfield or somebody.”
“That’s a good choice. I like her. Who would play your father?”
I laughed and said, “You’re really getting into this.”
“You asked me about it.”
I said, “Well, what do you think about a sequel to Flyy Girl? I’ve been trying to get a new book deal signed for months now.”
My mother responded, “Tracy, why are you asking me this? You’re gonna do what you want to do anyway.”
“I just wanted to get your opinion on it.”
“Well, why would you want to do it? That’s what you have to ask yourself. Why?”
Good question, I thought. “I guess to see how people would respond to it, you know. I never expected Flyy Girl to be as big as it has the potential to be,” I answered. “It’s almost like a cult following going on, and I really want to see what the numbers would be like if we went all the way with it. I’m just mad curious, like they would say in New York.”
