Blood is Pretty

by Steven Paul Leiva

  “I’m not a messenger service. ”

  “There’s a change of behavior on his part I want you to assure. ”

  “I see. Well, I have been known to affect behavior modification. Give me the details. ”

  “Fixxer, for a long time I have been searching for the Holy Grail. ”

  “I assume you’re being metaphorical. ”

  He dragged on the cigarette again and smiled again. It wasn’t a smile that lifted spirits. It was the scary smile of a sad ghoul. “The Holy Grail for any filmmaker—for any commercial filmmaker—and I’m very proud to say that I’m a commercial filmmaker—is the Living Concept Movie. ”

  “Otherwise known as a good story?”

  “No, no, Fixxer, it’s far more complex than just a good story. It is the magic formula—the secret key. By ‘Living Concept,’ I mean something that can replicate. Something that can bear children. ”

  “Sequels. ”

  “Sequels, merchandising, spin-offs, those are but the mere manifestations. The real children are elements taken from the Zeitgeist, formed into crystal clear universal representations, then sent out through your film back into the Zeitgeist, thereby re-shaping it slightly to your will. ”

  “And none of your past films have re-shaped the Zeitgeist?”

  “Some had potential, but the studios fucked up the marketing. ”

  “And your successful films?”

  “The studios fucked up the story. ”

  “But they made money?”

  “Sometimes directing is salvage work. ”

  “So I assume this Dave Finch has given you a Living Concept. ”

  “Forced it on me at an AFI seminar six months ago. I told him I could only accept things submitted through my agent, then he started to scream about the elitism of Hollywood and Catch 22’s, almost, I swear, foaming at the mouth. I put it into my pocket just to shut him up. ”

  “It wasn’t a script. ”

  “No, just a 15-page treatment. I forgot about it. Didn’t even take it out of my jacket. ”

  “Until?”

  “Last Tuesday. First time I had worn the jacket since the seminar. I didn’t really remember where it came from, so I looked it over. Within three pages I knew what was there. I had found my Holy Grail. ”

  “And now you want to buy it for a quarter of a million. So what’s the problem? Kid isn’t a member of the Writer’s Guild, is he?”

  “I don’t want to make a normal deal here. I want to be fair—more than fair. A quarter of a million is a hell of a lot for a treatment. I want to give it to him. Then I want him to go away. ”

  His cowboy crust cracked a little bit. His hands shook as he lit another cigarette.

  “I see. You want to present this Living Concept as wholly original to your own fertile imagination. ”

  “I will, in the screenplay, of course, make it much more than what it is now. ”

  “Nonetheless…”

  “It’s the concept that’s going to blow people away. ”

  “Still, why go through this? Purchase the damn thing then bury him in the credits. ”

  “No. No, I’ve got to do it this way. ”

  “Why? You’ve had successes. You’ve made money. You’ll keep working. ”

  “Because I want to be anointed. Spielberg; Coppola; Scorsese, those bastards have been anointed. I want to be anointed!”

  Not hard to understand. Isn’t Hollywood the Mt. Olympus of the modern age? The rarefied air where gods and goddesses reign and for whom sacrifices are made. Graven images of them or their work bring tributes from the masses. They are worshipped in the form of attention, attention confirming recognition, recognition meaning: I am above it all!

  But if you are not really a god who can travel to Olympus on a cloud, you can only get there by climbing. Which probably means you’ll have to get your hands dirty.

  “Half of what you’re paying him. ”

  “You want 125,000 for the job?”

  “And the amnesia. ”

  “Okay, I’ll have Norton transfer it over as soon as I have Finch’s signature on this. ”

  He handed me a one-sheet agreement. It read:

  I, David Finch, in consideration of payment of Two Hundred and Fifty Thousand Dollars ($250,000), which I hereby acknowledge receipt of, assign all copyright and interest in a fifteen page treatment currently entitled “V,” as well as in all ideas, elements, concepts and characters contained within said treatment, to Paul Hinckley, and that by doing so Paul Hinckley becomes, for all purposes whatsoever, the author of said treatment and has full rights to take such credit. I agree that any mention of this agreement by me will be a material breach of this agreement.

  “I’m not sure this is a truly binding document. When the film is the biggest thing since Star Wars, what’s to prevent him from taking credit?”

  “The contract’s just window dressing. I’m counting on the money and your presence to do the real job. Scare the shit out of him Fixx. ”

  “Yeah, I can do that. And thank you for the compliment. But, let’s try something else as well. Can I get into your computer?”

  “Sure. ”

  I went over to the computer, which was placed on a chest high stand. He obviously wrote standing up—probably in his cowboy boots. I opened a document and typed:

  I, David Finch, hereby acknowledge and admit that while I was working at the offices of Hondo Productions as a one-day temp, I made of copy of a 15 page treatment titled “V,” that I took this copy home with me and retyped it word for word and have submitted it to various film production companies and individuals in the film industry, claiming authorship of said treatment. I further acknowledge that the sole author of the treatment is Paul Hinckley.

  “This is great. ” Hinckley said, his Marlboro breath flowing from just over my shoulder.

  “As you said, he’s a film geek. But if anybody were to believe him, this should convince them otherwise. You had him sign it for your protection. Then, being the deep feeling Hollywood liberal you are, you dropped the matter not wanting to call in the police and ruin the kid’s life. He forced the treatment on you. He may have forced it on others. ”

  “I can’t believe that. ”

  “Why not?”

  “If anybody of power had read this—it would be an announced project. ”

  He gave me Finch’s address on Argyle in Hollywood, and a cashier’s check made out to CASH.

  “I’m leaving here at five. I’m going up to my ranch in Paso Robles. Norton has the number, let me know as soon as it’s all done. ”

  “Going to get in some riding?”

  “Yeah. Healthy stuff. Fresh air. Sometimes you just have to get away from the stink of Hollywood. ”

  Chapter 3

  Silly Putty Lips

  I decided it would be best to go home and grab a bit of lunch and change cars before going out bird hunting. I don’t mind driving the 911 through Hollywood, but parking there on a residential street for any length of time would show a lack of caution that was trained out of me long ago.

  “Does the name Anne Eisley mean anything to you?” Roee greeted me.

  “Much. But most of it is my active imagination. ”

  “Norton said she called and you should call her. ”

  “Fine. Set it up. What have you got for lunch?”

  “Poached salmon from The Bistro. ”

  I ate as I talked to Miss Eisley over the speaker.

  “I called him. ”

  “I assume he was thrilled. ”

  “Yeah. I had to wipe off my phone. He wants to go out tomorrow night. Is that too soon?”

  “What do you hear from your agent?”

  “Oh, yeah. He confirmed it. Got the deal with the Pay or Play. ”

  “Then tomorrow night is perfect timing. ”

  I gave her details of what I wanted her to do.

  “And you’ll be there when I bring him home?”

  “Yes. ”

  �
�There won’t be a confrontation, will there?”

  “He’ll never know I was there. Just get him to a heighten state of anticipation. ”

  “That shouldn’t be hard. ”

  “Actually, it should be. But we needn’t go into that now. ”

  I took the Corolla to Hollywood, a nice, dull mid-Eighties model. Brown.

  I went east on Wilshire to Hancock Park, making a left on Rossmore, the most pleasant artery into Hollywood, a tree-lined street of old money mansions, very East Coast in its feel. “Mansions” may actually be a hyperbole, but “big houses,” which would be accurate, seems inadequate. Being just up the road from the Wilshire District, and not that far from downtown, these houses were occupied by bankers and oil company executives, or retired versions of same, who had bought the houses in deflated times gone by and now found it hard to pay for the upkeep and replace the antiquated plumbing.

  The really nice houses were down the side streets off Rossmore where you could find the official homes of several foreign consulates and a few old Borsch Belt comedians. Not that some of the houses on Rossmore weren’t grand; there just was not a consistency of grand. After you pass Beverly Boulevard you leave the houses and drive by a stretch of old fashioned, New York-like apartment buildings dating from the glamour days of Hollywood. There’s the Country Club Manor, the El Royalee, and a little further up, before you get to Melrose and Rossmore becomes Vine, stands the Ravenswood —

  Was it the El Royalee or the Ravenswood where Mae West lived for years until her death? I use to know. Damn! This was going to bug me all day.

  Past Melrose you run into the bland ugliness of lower Hollywood, passing the Musicians Union hall, post production companies, sound recording studios, and various fast food/convenience store corners, eventually reaching the fabled but faded corners of Sunset & Vine and Hollywood & Vine. You could say that Hollywood proper is not very glamorous. You would be more correct to say it is not glamorous at all, except for a hint of the long gone at the corner of Hollywood & Vine, due solely to the pre-war buildings still standing there. The old Broadway Building on the southwest corner that no longer houses that department store. The Hollywood Taft Building across the street to the east, full of offices that one can imagine were once occupied by legitimate and reputable talent and casting agents suddenly scrambling to find actors with good speaking voices. The Pantages Theater, just down Hollywood Boulevard, once the home of glittery premieres and the Academy Awards, now a stop for road companies of old legit Broadway musicals. If you look up at these buildings you can get a feel for the Hollywood that was.

  But look down to street level and you are too rudely handed the Hollywood that is: A tourist trap with very unappetizing bait.

  But they say they are going recover Hollywood. Who knows, could happen. They’re doing a number on Times Square; maybe they’re waiting to see how that turns out.

  I passed Hollywood Boulevard, went one block, and made a right on Yucca, and then a quick left onto Argyle. Dave Finch lived on the 2000 block, the last block before Argyle curved to the right and became Hollymont Drive then curved its way up to join the wavy roads of the Hollywood Hills.

  The old apartment buildings along this stretch of Argyle—including the romantically named De Mille Manor—showed the effects of time in their rundown condition, their faded beauty—a Hollywood tradition, after all. Others showed more the effect of the times in their surrounding thick barred security fences with their “airlock” entranceways. The fences never match the aesthetics of the buildings, but aesthetics are probably very low on the list of residential concerns in this neighborhood.

  I found Dave Finch’s building by surmising the address it lacked in any visible form from the addresses on the building just before and the building just after. It was a two-story quasi-Spanish style building needing a new coat or ten of a rather awful pink paint and replacements for the faded green bird shit-splattered awnings over the windows. Neither improvement was likely in the near future by the look of things. The “front” of the building was actually its side, with all the apartment doors facing the north side of the De Mille Manor, which towered over it by half. Between the De Mille and the pink building were two or three large overgrown trees that formed a cave-like entrance into what a patriot might call the courtyard, a long, narrow slab of concrete before the apartment doors and the outside stairs in the center that took you to the second story. Between the De Mille and the trees, sun had probably not penetrated this area for decades. Finch’s apartment number 3 was on the second story.

  I figured it would be useless but I tried the doorbell. Nothing. I knocked.

  “Yeah! Hold on a minute!” came a slightly high voice, followed soon by the door opening. “Yeah?” said the skinny and nervous ferret of a young man who opened the door. Dave Finch was maybe 23. His hair was brown, short, cut haphazardly, with no particular point of view. His eyes were intense focal points of glazed-over attention, the kind that suspiciously never left you, while fronting a mind totally self-absorbed. His lips seemed to be pinched out of Silly Putty.

  “Dave Finch?”

  “Yeah?” He was suspicious, but curious.

  “I have something for you from Paul Hinckley. ”

  “Reeeally!?” He stretched out the word, showing his excited amazement, yet a total lack of questioning that Paul Hinckley would actually have something for him.

  “Can I come in?”

  “Yeah, sure. ”

  He opened the door and I entered. His apartment was a cluttered mess of a single with a small kitchen area crammed into an alcove; a Murphy bed, down and littered with laundry, not clean from the smell of it; books and magazines piled up here and there, probably by a system of his own creation; and two tall bookcases completely filled with black video tape boxes, neatly labeled, indicating that he was a major offender of copyright law. In one corner was a 20” color television on a cart whose lower shelf held a Go-Video dual deck VHS machine (the instrument of his criminality); in another was a small desk upon which sat a Macintosh Performa and a small personal printer. These items indicated where whatever money he made went, as opposed to, say, nourishment. The walls were covered with old movie poster one-sheets, lobby cards and 8x10 production stills, all unframed, just push-pinned for permanence. There was The Seventh Voyage of Sinbad. There was Star Wars. Not the original poster, but the neater second version for the re-issue. And there was, of course, a reprint poster of an Orson Wells film,

  The Magnificent Ambersons. Citizen Kane must not have been available.

  “So—so did he finally read ‘V’?”

  “He read it. ”

  “I only been calling him for months. ”

  “You’ve been calling him?”

  “Yeah. His—his assistant, Gina, really nice, very—very sweet girl—uh—said he got all my messages, but, you know, he would be on location or vacation or scouting or something. Did—uh—did he like it?”

  “Yeah. A lot. ”

  “Reeeally. Oh, wow! I knew it. You see, he needs, he really needs a good script. He’s—he’s very underrated by—by the mainstream critics, they just—they don’t see his magnificent handling of just pure, raw cinema, of the whole—the whole composition/movement/light package of information as it hits us through the tunnel—the tunnel of our optic sense to the visual cortex to mingle with nets of our own experience, even—even to inform those nets with new manufactured experiences. ” He paused and nodded his head in short, rapid movements, as if one side of him was vigorously agreeing with the other. “But—but he’s always been a stinker of a writer. ” He concluded.

  “Yes, well…”

  “I could start on the screenplay right away. I mean, I’ve got commitments, you know, to the papers, lots of reviews to do, and—and my continuing exploration of the films of Michael Powell, but I—I could, you know, start tomorrow. So, what should I do? Should I—should I get an agent?”

  “I think we can handle the negotiations right here, don
’t you?”

  “Uh—well—uh—yeah—sure, but, well, you know, I don’t want to be taken advantage of. Isn’t it better if I have an agent? I mean, I know I’ve got to get at least Writer’s Guild minimum, but I would like, you know, a little bit more than that. ”

  “Would this suffice?” I handed him the cashier’s check.

  “Oh wow!” He looked up at me. “Reeeally? Wow!”

  “There are conditions. You must sign these. ”

  He took the two sheets of paper with the two agreements on them, and studied them intently, reading them at least twice each, as if the first read made no sense. Or no sense he wanted to accept. Then the anger hit like a baseball bat to the face. “No way! This is shit! This is shit, man! It’s like what everybody says, they just want to fuck you!”

  “Quarter of a million dollars is a hell of a fuck. ”

  “I don’t care! Shit! It’s my story! I don’t want too—fuck! I dreamed of working with this bastard, now look what…”

  “Hey!” I had to stop him. Or the shrill of his voice would soon be calling dogs. “What the hell do you want out of life, kid?”

  “I want to make movies, that’s all. I—I know everything I—I understand film in a way no one else can even touch. I mean—I mean, shit…” One tear from each eye started a slow race down his cheeks. “I’ve seen every great film ever made, I’ve memorized them practically, every shot, every light angle, I can just—I can just close my eyes and see the shots I want to make. But you got to have a break, you know, shit, you got to have that break. You see, to write this film—it’s going to be a fucking big hit—that’s my break. It’s my story—mine. People got to know that, you know. ”

  “With $250,000 you can certainly buy yourself some time to write a few more good ideas. ”

  “No! No! This one! And fuck the money! I got money coming in. I’m going to have plenty of it. Tell Paul that, tell him that!”

  I decided it was time to make him approach life as the existential, nihilistic wonder it is. “Listen, kid. You’re very low on the scale of humanity. You are a film geek, a creepy, unattractive, not well-bathed fantasist living a Kafka-like black & white existence, but without the political overtones. You are so enamored by film that you are practically celluloid yourself at a time when everything else is going digital. You are nearly useless, except to make a few other poor bastards feel better that they are at least not you, whereas I am a fucking angel who has come down from heaven to offer you manna well beyond your means. Do not be ungrateful and turn this offer down. The consequences are unthinkable. ”