'First months went well. Hammond's a loner, aloof, morose. Mahler reads his moods, listens for the subtext then feeds it back to the star. So Hammond lays a project on them. The Last Muse. He wants to act and direct. Can they set it up? Well, let me tell you, those geniuses went out and collared twenty million dollars on the strength of a letter from Hammond and their in-house coverage. Champagne all round. That was tiptop professional stuff. Except for a minor misunderstanding. When Hammond presented the project they thought he controlled the rights. How they got that thought, whose thought that was, history will decide. Maybe Curwen gave them the glad eye. Because it wasn't hammered down. It was an elementary question, a spec of detail that escaped three pairs of eyes. Sabbatini has sweaty sleepless nights. Somehow Mahler contained the embarrassment, turned fallibility into a bonding opportunity. The agent serviced his client's dismay. What he couldn't service was measlespot Weislob calling Hilldyard and doing the hard sell.'
'Why did he do that?'
'Weislob is totally LA. He talks like a gangster and gets foul-mouthed under pressure. But the guy has an English parent and he did some postgraduate bullshit at Oxford.'
'Oxford?'
'Probably Keele. Anyway, he thinks he can schmooze Brits and when Curwen gave up he tried to sweet-talk Hilldyard.'
'Curwen gave him Hilldyard's number?'
'So he must be persuasive. But not that persuasive. When Hilldyard told him where to get off, Weislob said he could stick his MS where the sun didn't shine along with the prickly-pears, pomegranates and other bits of Mediterranean fruit he was swivelling on.'
'God!'
'Which was premature. Because however intransigent Hilldyard seemed it wasn't Rick's call to blow him out with a stream of abuse. That was a tactical error.'
'And has Hammond quit?'
'Let me tell you, he's cheesed. If it weren't for Mahler he'd've walked. Mahler is trying a high-level approach to Hilldyard via an eminent Italian screenwriter-stroke-novelist. They have absolutely no choice but to redeem the situation. If Hammond walks, it'll be all over Variety. And Hammond will only stay if they collar the rights, which is looking like mission impossible. Weislob and Mahler are sweating like pigs in a Jewish sauna. If they lose Hammond, the whole agency will take a slug in the pips, everybody's careers'll be mauled shitless. That place is crapping itself.'
There was a lengthy pause while Adamson let the news settle in.
'Interesting situation, eh!'
Michael remained silent.
'You see the opportunity?'
He had some idea of what was coming, but he said nothing.
'Whoever gets those rights has Coburn over a barrel.'
Michael held the phone to his ear and felt his heart beating.
'You can negotiate anything. All you have to do is get between them and the film rights in Last Muse. Then you take them.'
Adamson allowed the line to remain open, as if to make way for Michael's thoughts.
'What exactly do you mean?'
'You option the rights off Hilldyard, then force yourself into their film. They'll hate it. Tough shit. They have to deal. You control the rights. Man, you're hijacking on to a pre-financed twenty-million-dollar flick starring Shane Hammond. You get a producer fee, front-end credit, but more important, you dictate the creative approach. You beat them with the Hilldyard stick. Make sure it's his kind of picture. And that's just for starters. The real steel is on their agency fee. Now listen to this, Michael. Coburn will be stiffing the budget for a ten per cent packaging fee. Two million dollars. One chunk of spons. You'll take half of it.'
'What?'
'They'll fucking hate you. They'll scream and yell. But they have to keep the client. Either they accept your terms, eat doodoo, or lose Hammond. And if they keep Hammond, they're going to be coining it back.'
Michael could not help chuckling. Adamson's chutzpah was out of control, his opportunism so disconnected from reality.
'You're looking at one point five million bucks.'
The computation was enthralling, meaningless. 'I don't think so.'
'Seriously.'
'Seriously, Nick. Hilldyard won't grant the rights.'
'That's where you come in.'
Michael shook his head. 'No I don't.'
'Have you asked for an option?'
'Of course not.'
'Then you don't know his response.'
'I do.'
'You can't know that.'
'We've discussed it!'
'What you're dealing with is a man's state of mind. Opinions and prejudices. So get inside his head and press some buttons. Find out what makes the guy tick and give it back with nobs on.'
Michael sighed. 'He has very good . . .'
'Bend over for him. Go down on the bard. Whatever it takes, get your hands on that option. It's a matter of persuasion.'
He laughed out loud. 'I don't want to persuade him.'
'You don't want to persuade him?'
'No.'
'You don't want to make one spot five million bucks?'
'Not this way.'
Adamson's voice grew rougher, as though an escalation of force were required. His tone met the revelation of Michael's attitude with direct incredulity.
'What's so terrible? Where's the great ethical hang-up? We're making a movie not the H-bomb.'
He had no desire to convey Hilldyard's intimate reasons to Adamson. There was no guarantee that the most personal and private scruples would register with him. 'I know his views and I respect them. If I attempted to hustle him I'd ruin the friendship.'
'What kind of friendship sets you back a million bucks?'
The question was too stupid to answer.
'If the guy rates friendship he'll loosen up. Fuck sake, this is just a book.'
'It's a novel and it's his lifeblood.'
'Brief Encounter meets Love Story. Wouldn't harm a fly.'
'He finds it painful.'
'He can take a pill. He can think seven hundred and fifty thousand bucks. For Christ's sake, he's got to be human!'
'He's very human.'
'This is not human. Some highly talented people want to turn his book into a film. The human thing would be to accept the money and enthusiasm with good grace. Jesus Christ, he should be so lucky.'
'Look -' He was feeling browbeaten. 'He's not a commercial animal. He's a novelist, and he's sensitive to things that don't bother other people.'
'Sensitivity's going to cost you an entry into Hollywood.' Adamson sighed deeply. He lowered his voice, appeared to calm down. 'I understand what you're saying.'
'No you don't.'
'What d'you want out of life, man? A few principles? Snow-white dealings with the nerve-endings of egocentric authors? Let me tell you. If this film is any good you'll be walking tall on Sunset Boulevard. You'll be right inside Hammond's world, rubbing shoulders with a braful of talent. The films you want to make will happen, and instead of being a UK indie pissed about by the BBC, you'll be cruising in the fast lane. You'll look back to the English days with total contempt. I mean, here's where it's happening, man. You want girls, the city is bulging with pussy. You want Beverly Hills palm trees and swimming pools, they are here for the taking. Because this is not a dress rehearsal. This is it. And if you throw away a chance like this you might have a nice life in Hampstead or Barnes, but you won't have happened. And I don't mean the money or the profile, I mean you. You won't have lived to the full extent of your talents. The current is strong here, Michael. It galvanises people. You could walk all over this town doing what you do best. Do you hear me?'
Michael had heard Adamson's creed. It appalled and fascinated him. 'Loud and clear.'
'And can you honestly tell me there's a principle at stake worth the sacrifice?'
'I can.'
'Think big, Michael. Seize the day. You throw away an opportunity like this and you've wasted your whole life.'
He rubbed his eye. Adamson could explain himself to Michael. He
doubted he could ever explain himself to Adamson. Nick was a sworn enemy of that kind of thinking. It made the conversation one-sided, but in reality, Michael had no desire to convert him. It would take too long. 'What do you care, Nick?'
'Aha. Thirty per cent of your fee.'
He smiled: the shamelessness.
'You want to take on Coburn and Weislob alone? You'll be tucked up by the end of clause one.'
He adjusted the towel. There was gooseflesh on his shoulder.
'Twenty-five per cent up to a ceiling of three hundred K?'
He lay back on the pillow and allowed himself to think just once of his bank manager's face. All he needed to save his house was eighty thousand pounds.
'Opportunities are never handed to you, Michael. There's always a challenge. But you've put yourself in the right place at the right time. You've earned the chance. Don't let yourself down.'
He could sense Adamson's view of him: a slowcoach, a late starter, someone held up by his Britishness, a rookie in need of commercial hot-wiring; and he realised that in American terms he looked totally soft. American producers worked the system, operated in a metaphysical vacuum. That's why they were so good. They lived in a cold universe and respected its laws, money laws.
'All you gotta do is persuade one old man. It's not exactly building the wall of China.'
'Sorry, Nick.'
'You will be. If they option it without you. A total disaster.'
'Not for me.'
'Hey, Michael. You'd be sick as a dog.'
'Nobody's going to persuade him.'
'You'd better be right. Hollywood has a way of getting to people.'
'It's certainly got to you.'
'And if Hilldyard's principles change, don't be the only person missing the boat. No point having more integrity than the author, eh!'
The remark disgusted him.
'Sleep on it, Michael. You'll dream sweetly of Shane Hammond kissing your arse.'
'Sorry to disappoint you.'
'I'll talk to Weislob in a couple of days. We need to open channels.'
'The matter's closed.'
'The matter is wide open.'
Michael held on to his temper. 'James Hilldyard's soul is not for sale to Tinseltown and neither is mine.'
'Fine. I'll call you tomorrow.'
'Nick!'
Adamson put the phone down, and for a moment Michael wondered whether he had misheard.
For several minutes he remained on the bed. He switched on the table lamp. It cast a parchment glow across his skin. The walls of the hotel bedroom felt cold.
He stirred himself to get up and dressed and moved around the room listlessly collecting garments. His shirts had been washed and ironed and hung up in the cupboard by the chambermaid. His underwear had been filed in separate drawers. Since Hilldyard's intervention the quality of service had improved and cushions had appeared on the chairs and shampoo sachets in the bathroom.
He sat on the edge of the bed pulling on a sock. It struck him as a curious thing to be doing after that conversation, drawing a sock over one's foot. He examined the white skin of his ankle, attention wandering to a point in mid-space. Adamson had contaminated the air, the room.
He decided to start writing. He took out a pad of writing paper from the desk drawer. He drew a pen from his jacket pocket and seated himself, forearm on the desk, his right hand suspended above the sheet. He was determined to concentrate. He wanted to return quickly to an earlier mood. He pushed aside all thought of Adamson and tried to remember an emotion that had come to him after lunch. Experience was vital in him now, gathered; he simply needed to lean into it and words would come, words that he had not sought before. He was ready to write down what had happened to him and to find a form for impulses of sentiment he had never defined. It was not simply that something had eased, enabling unaccustomed contemplation, the perspective of recovery, it was more a gathering of feeling, a ripeness, an urgency, as if he were too full and needed to get this out because whatever it was, this need, it was too important to be wasted. It had to be harnessed and set down, formed, saved, because suddenly the thing that he might write, the cluster of promptings coming at him from every layer in memory, could redeem what had been lost.
He rubbed his eyes. It was 7.30 p.m., and the hotel was silent.
Later he lay on the bed and gazed unblinkingly at a white ceiling lined in the centre by a plaster crack. He had written three paragraphs in two hours.
He was quite stricken when the telephone rang. It went six times, and he stared at the receiver without moving.
He saw his hand reach out. He put the phone to his ear. 'Hello?' he said.
Michael sat upright as if to protect the receiver. Adela apologised for disturbing him.
'Not at all,' he said, not quite in his own voice.
There was something she wanted to mention when they spoke before; it slipped her mind when he told her about Hilldyard. The following day she was going to Capri. There was a boat and then a hydrofoil; one came back about four o'clock. She had no special plan, just a stroll around the island, a snoop in the shops, lunch somewhere. Would he like to join her?
He was surprised, almost taken aback. He accepted quickly. They agreed to meet at the dock at a quarter-past nine. Adela rang off, and he slowly replaced the phone, bearer of all manner of tidings.
He pulled himself up, displacing his energy with a stride around the room, until he came to the mirror. He stopped to consider his face as another might see it for the first time.
In due course he put the paper back in the drawer and decided to slip downstairs for a drink on the terrace. He would sit on an easy chair and think things over.
He collected a Cinzano from the bar and wandered out on to the terrace and felt as he sat down and gazed at the fading light on the peaks of the mountains that he was getting to know himself at last. Things were settling.
In staying on he had done the right thing. Now that he was here, safe from the world, he could see that what had happened to him was not quite accidental. Bankruptcy had perhaps been a choice, the wilful precipitation of a crisis, something that would force change. Perhaps he had not so much failed to make an accommodation with life as evicted himself from an area of meaninglessness. Everything had led, at least, to lunch with James Hilldyard and to the Cimbrone belvedere; and a life which led to such moments could not be without purpose.
Chapter Nine
Adela stood on the deck of the hydrofoil, one foot before the other, hand on the rail, her streaming hair aloft in the wind. She leaned as far as possible over the rail to feel the spray and to see foam jetting from the craft's sides. Her cardigan was billowing, her summer frock flapping; she smiled at the rush of wind on her skin, at the surly sea, the ghost of Capri on the horizon.
The day was febrile with light and vapour; translucent mist rose off the waters; spokes of sunlight developed patches of colour on ochre cliffs. The air was heady with sea change, mercurial weather that might mellow and maintain the placid autumn warmth or wipe the haze with bright skies and strong winds.
They began the journey in the cinema seats of the passenger lounge. The windows were the colour of orangeade, the seats uncomfortable, and when the craft got up speed they went out and gave up conversation to the blast of air and the roar of the engine. Adela was fascinated by the diminishing sight of Positano, suddenly enclosed by a magnitude of scenery that slowly reduced it to a smudge on the coast. It was strange to watch the halcyon town dwindle into the great reaches of sea and sky, and curious to follow the great backdrop of the mountain extending along the coast for miles. One could lose all sense of the modern staring at that band of rock.
Michael caught her smile from time to time, and when Capri approached he joined her on the port side to watch the striated cliff rush up. The craft throttled back and they saw its wash twirling over the surface of the water and slapping on the rocks.
They were a little uncomfortable at first, as if it were slightly false
to be so exhilarated by the voyage before they had got to know each other. But the premise of the trip was adventure, and he could tell she was hungry for first impressions. He sensed that she had been restless and her restlessness now had an outlet. The wide horizons of the sea and the spectre of Capri met something acquisitive in her imagination. By the time the craft was moored in Porto Turistico, and they had exchanged the sway of the vessel for the solid flatness of the jetty, she was beaming with excitement.
They stood on the jetty and gazed at the backlit mass of the island. The marina was cluttered with yachts and sailing boats, masts rocking and cockeyed, a lattice through which came the subdued pastels of the waterfront buildings, and above the harbour frontage, terraces of olive and orange trees clambering up to the island's saddle, Capri town, where in due course they would recapture the sun.
After gliding up the hill they emerged from the funicular into the bustle of the centro, a tourist current leading to the Piazza Umberto, with its four hundred wicker chairs and beer tables. The instant convenience of the Piazza was a little premature, and they pressed on away from the German beer signs and credit-card stickers along ancient streets, narrow and smelling of stone. They walked past the palm-court entrances of grand hotels, around the porticoes of churches. They wended their way looking for a caffè that was perfectly situated in relation to all the picturesque elements, a place that would reward anticipation with culmination; but such a spot was hard to find, and none of the smaller squares exceeded the touristic apotheosis of the Umberto with its celebratory atmosphere of efficient profit. And although it was fun to explore, Michael soon felt disheartened, as if famous Capri were no longer real. On corner after corner stood perfunctory restaurants, over-sponsored bars, hotel porches, forbiddingly deluxe. They searched hard and found little to their taste, a negative consensus which was subtly bonding. After strolling past a monastery and sitting in the Giardino di Augusto, they discovered a trattoria on a side street. It had a balcony enfurled with wisteria and a steeply priced menu in a glass case by the door.
Sex & Genius Page 11
