by William Boyd
Aurélien filmed the walk to the café first. It took four days, starting late afternoon, always approaching the café at dusk. He filmed Nathalie’s levée in one sustained twelve-hour burst. Delphine woke, made up, sang and dressed eight times that day in a series of long takes, cuts only coming when the film ran out. The song changed: Delphine sang Bob Dylan’s “She Belongs to Me” with the pronoun changed to “He.” This was Delphine’s idea, and a good one Aurélien thought, the only problem was she kept forgetting. “He’s an artist, she don’t look back,” Delphine sang in her flat breathy voice as she combed her hair, “He never stumbles, she’s got no place to fall.”
Every evening they would go to the pizzeria and eat. Aurélien insisted that Delphine get drunk, not knee-walking drunk, but as far as woozy inebriation. Of course the waiters came to know them and conversation ensued. “What you guys doin’ here anyway? Making a movie? Great. Another beer for the lady? No problemo.”
After a week’s regular visiting Aurélien asked the owner, a small nervy man called George Malinverno, if they could film at the pizzeria, outside on the “terrace,” for one night only. They agreed on a remuneration of two hundred dollars.
MICHAEL SCOTT GEHN. Have you ever heard of the Topeka Film Festival? That’s Topeka, Kansas? No? Neither have I. So you can understand that I was kind of pissed when my editor assigned me to cover it. It ran a week, the theme was “Kansas in the Western, 1970–1980.” It’s not my subject, my last book was on Murnau, for Christ’s sake, but let’s not get embroiled in office politics. The point is I’m on my way to the airport and I realize I’ve left my razor and shaving foam behind. I pull into this mini-mall where there’s a pharmacy. I’m coming out of the shop and I see there’s a film crew setting up a shot of the pizzeria. Normally I see a film crew and chronic catatonia sets in. But there’s something about this one: the guy holding the boom mike looks like he’s stoned—even I can see that it keeps dropping into the shot. So I wander over. The camera is set up behind these plants, kind of poking through a gap, like it’s hidden or something. And there’s this black guy behind the camera with this great hair with beads on it. I see he’s D.P. and clapper boy and director. He calls out into the darkness and this sensational-looking girl walks into the pizzeria terrace thing. She sits down and orders a beer and they just keep filming. After about two minutes the soundman drops the boom and they have to start over. I hear them talking—French. I couldn’t believe it. I had this guy figured for some wannabe homeboy director out of South Central LA. But they’re talking French to each other. When was the last time a French crew shot a movie in this town? I introduced myself and that’s when he told me about Nathalie X and the Prix d’Or. I bought them all some drinks and he told me his story and gave me a videocassette of the movie. Fuck Topeka, I thought, I knew this was too good to miss. French underground movies shooting next door to LAX. Are you kidding me? They were all staying in some fleabag motel under the flight path, for God’s sake. I called my editor and threatened to take the feature to American Film. He reassigned me.
The night’s shooting at the pizzeria did not go well. Bertrand proved incapable of holding the boom aloft for more than two minutes and this was one sequence where Aurélien knew he needed sound. He spent half an hour taping a mike under Delphine’s table and snaking the wires around behind the potted plants. Then this man who said he was a film critic turned up and offered to buy them a drink. When Aurélien was talking to him, Delphine drank three margaritas and a negroni. When they tried to restart, her reflexes had slowed to such an extent that when she remembered she had to throw the glass of beer, the waiter had turned away and she missed completely. Aurélien wrapped it up for the night. Holbish wandered off and Aurélien drove Delphine back to the hotel. She was sick in the parking lot and started to cry and that’s when Aurélien thought about the gun.
KAISER PREVOST. I rarely read film/e. It’s way too pretentious. Ditto that creep Michael Scott Gehn. Any guy with three names and I get irrationally angry. What’s wrong with plain old Michael Gehn? Are there so many Michael Gehns out there that he has to distinguish himself? “Oh, you mean Michael Scott Gehn, I got you now.” I’d like a Teacher’s, straight up, with three ice cubes. Three. Thank you. Anyway, for some reason I bought it that week—it was the issue with that great shot of Jessica, no, Lanier on the cover—and I read the piece about this French director Aurélien No and this remake Seeing Through Nathalie he was shooting in town. Gehn—sorry, Michael Scott Gehn—is going on like this guy is sitting there holding God’s hand and I read about the Prix d’Or and this Nathalie X film and I think, hmmm, has Aurélien got representation? This is Haig. This is not Teacher’s.
MICHAEL SCOTT GEHN. I knew, I just knew when this young guy Kaiser Prevost calls me up, things would change. “Hi, Michael,” he says. “Kaiser Prevost here.” I don’t know jack shit about any Kaiser Prevost but I do know I hate it when someone uses my Christian name from the get-go—what’s wrong with Mr. Gehn? Also his tone just assumes, just oozes the assumption that I’m going to know who he is. I mean, I am a film critic of some reputation, if I may be immodest for a moment, and these young guys in the agencies … There’s a problem of perspectives, that’s what it comes down to, that’s what bedevils us. I have a theory about this town: there is no overview, nobody steps back, no one stands on the mountain looking down on the valley. Imagine an army composed entirely of officers. Let me put it another way: imagine an army where everyone thinks they’re an officer. That’s Hollywood, that’s the film business. No one wants to accept the hierarchy, no one will admit they are a foot soldier. And I’m sorry, a young agent in a boutique agency is just a G.I. Joe to me. Still, he was a persuasive fellow and he had some astute and flattering things to say about the article. I told him where Aurélien was staying.
Aurélien No met Kaiser Prevost for breakfast in the coffee shop of the Dollarwize. Prevost looked around him as if he had just emerged from some prolonged comatose sleep.
“You know, I’ve lived in this town for all my life and I don’t think I’ve ever even driven through here. And as for shooting a movie … It’s a first!”
“Well, it was right for me.”
“Oh no. I appreciate that. I think it’s fresh, original. Gehn certainly thinks a lot of you.”
“Who?”
Prevost showed him the article in film/e. Aurélien flicked through it. “He has written a lot.”
“Have you got a rough assembly of the new movie? Anything I could see?”
“No.”
“Any dailies? Maybe you call them rushes.”
“There are no dailies on this film. None of us see anything until it is finished.”
“The ultimate auteur, huh? That is impressive. More than that, it’s cool.”
Aurélien chuckled. “No, it’s a question of—what do you say?—faute de mieux.”
“I couldn’t have put it better myself. Look, Aurélien, I’d like you to meet somebody, a friend of mine at a studio. Can I fix that up? I think it would be mutually beneficial.”
“Sure. If you like.”
KAISER PREVOST. I have a theory about this town, this place, about the way it works: it operates best when people go beyond the bounds of acceptable behavior. You reach a position, a course of action suggests itself, and you say, “This makes me morally uncomfortable,” or “This will constitute a betrayal of friendship.” In any other walk of life you withdraw, you rethink. But my theory instead goes like this: make it your working maxim. When you find yourself in a position of normative doubt, then that is the sign to commit. My variation on this theory is that the really successful people go one step further. They find themselves in this moral gray area, they move right on into the black. Look at Vincent Bandine.
I knew I was doing the right thing with Aurélien No because I had determined not to tell my boss. Sheldon started ArtFocus after ten years at ICM. It was going well but it’s clear that the foundations are giving. Two months ago we lost Larry Swif
tsure. Last Saturday I get a call from Sheldon: Donata Vail has walked to CAA. His own Donata. He was weeping and was looking for consolation, which I hope I provided. Under these circumstances it seemed to me at best morally dubious that I should go behind his back and try to set up a deal for Aurélien at Alcazar. I was confident it was the only route to take.
The gun idea persisted, it nagged at Aurélien. He talked about it with Bertrand, who thought it was an amusing notion.
“A gun, why not? Pam-pam-pam-pam.”
“Could you get me one? A handgun?” Aurélien asked. “Maybe one of those guys you know …”
“A prop gun? Or a real one?”
“Oh, I think it should be real. Don’t tell Delphine, though.”
The next day Bertrand showed Aurélien a small scarred automatic. It cost five hundred dollars. Aurélien did not question him about its provenance.
He reshot the end of Nathalie’s levée. Nathalie, dressed, is about to leave her room, her hand is on the doorknob. She pauses, turns and goes to a dresser, from whose top drawer she removes the gun. She checks the clip and places it in her fringed suede shoulder bag. She leaves.
He and Delphine had a prolonged debate about whether they should reshoot the entire walk to the restaurant. Delphine thought it was pointless. How, she argued, would the audience know if the gun was in her shoulder bag or not? But you would know, Aurélien countered, and everything might change. Delphine maintained that she would walk the same way whether she had a gun in her bag or not; also they had been in Los Angeles for three weeks and she was growing bored; Le Destin had been filmed in five days. A compromise was agreed: they would only reshoot the pizzeria sequence. Aurélien went off to negotiate another night’s filming.
BOB BERGER. I hate to admit it but I was grateful to Kaiser Prevost when he brought the Nathalie X project to me. As I told him, I had admired Aurélien No’s work for some years and was excited and honored at the possibility of setting up his first English-language film. More to the point, the last two films I exec’d at Alcazar had done me no favors: Disintegrator had only grossed 13 before they stopped tracking and Sophomore Nite II had gone straight to video. I liked the idea of doing something with more art quality and with a European kind of angle. I asked Kaiser to get a script to me soonest and I raised the project at our Monday morning staff meeting. I said I thought it would be a perfect vehicle for Lanier Cross. Boy, did that make Vincent sit up. Dirty old toad (he’s my uncle).
KAISER PREVOST. I’ll tell you one fact about Vincent Bandine. He has the cleanest teeth and the healthiest gums in Hollywood. Every morning a dental nurse comes to his house and flosses and cleans his teeth for him. Every morning, 365 days a year. That’s what I call class. Have you any idea how much that must cost?
Kaiser Prevost thought he detected an unsettled quality about Aurélien as he drove him to the meeting at Alcazar. Aurélien was frowning as he looked about him. The day was perfect, the air clear, the colors ideally bright; more than that, he was going to a deal meeting at a major minor studio, or minor major depending on who you were talking to. Usually in these cases the anticipation in the car would be heady, palpable. Aurélien just made clicking noises in his mouth and fiddled with the beads on the end of his dreadlocks. Prevost told him about Alcazar Films, their money base, their ten-picture slate, their deals or potential deals with Goldie, Franklin Dean, Joel, Demi, Carlo Sancarlo and ItalFilm. The names seemed to make no impact.
As they turned up Coldwater to go over into the valley Prevost finally had to ask if everything was all right.
“There’s a slight problem,” Aurélien admitted. “Delphine has left.”
“That’s too bad,” Prevost said, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice. “Gone back to France?”
“I don’t know. She’s left with Bertrand.”
“Bitch, man.”
“We still have the whole last scene to reshoot.”
“Listen, Aurélien, relax. One thing you learn about working in this town. Everything can be fixed. Everything.”
“How can I finish without Delphine?”
“Have you ever heard of Lanier Cross?”
VINCENT BANDINE. My nephew has two sterling qualities: he’s dumb and he’s eager to please. He’s a good-looking kid too and that helps, no doubt about it. Sometimes, sometimes, he gets it right. Sometimes he has a sense for the popular mood. When he started talking about this “Destiny of Nathalie” film I thought he was way out of his depth until he mentioned the fact that Lanier Cross would be buck naked for the first thirty minutes. I said get the French guy in, tie him up, get him together with Lanier. She’ll go for that. She’ll go for the French part. If the No fellow won’t play, get the Englishman in, what’s his name, Tim Pascal, he’ll do it. He’ll do anything I tell him.
I have a theory about this town: there’s too much respect for art. That’s where we make all our mistakes, all of them. But if that’s a given, then I’m prepared to work with it once in a while. Especially if it’ll get me Lanier Cross nekkid.
MICHAEL SCOTT GEHN. When I heard that Aurélien No was doing a deal with Vincent Bandine at Alcazar, I was both suicidal and oddly proud. If you’d asked me where was the worst home possible for a remake of Nathalie X, I’d have said Alcazar straight off. But that’s what heartens me about this burg, this place we fret and fight in. I have a theory about this town: they all talk about the “business,” the “industry,” how hard-nosed and bottom-line-obsessed they are, but it’s not true. Or rather not the whole truth. Films of worth are made and I respect the place for it. God, I even respected Vincent Bandine for it and I never thought those words would ever issue from my mouth. We shouldn’t say: look at all the crap that gets churned out, instead we should be amazed at the good films that do emerge from time to time. There is a heart here and it’s still beating even though the pulse is kind of thready.
Aurélien was impressed with the brutal economy of Bob Berger’s office. A black ebony desk sat in the middle of a charcoal gray carpet. Two large black leather sofas were separated by a thick sheet of glass resting on three sharp cones. On one wall were two black and white photographs of lily trumpets and on another was an African mask. There was no evidence of work or the tools of work apart from the long, flattened telephone on his desk. Berger himself was wearing crushed banana linen, he was in his mid-twenties, tall and deeply tanned.
Berger shook Aurélien’s hand warmly, his left hand gripping Aurélien’s forearm firmly as if he were a drowning man about to be hauled from a watery grave. He drew Aurélien to one of the leather sofas and sat him upon it. Prevost slid down beside him. A great variety of drinks were offered though Aurélien’s choice of beer caused some consternation. Berger’s assistant was dispatched in search of one. Prevost and Berger’s decaf espressos arrived promptly.
Prevost gestured at the mask. “Home sweet home, eh, Aurélien?”
“Excuse me?”
“I love African art,” Berger said. “What part of Africa are you from?”
“Kiq.”
“Right,” Berger said.
There was a short silence.
“Oh. Congratulations,” Berger said.
“Excuse me?”
“On the prize. Prix d’Or. Well deserved. Kaiser, have we got a print of Nathalie X?”
“We’re shipping it over from Paris. It’ll be here tomorrow.”
“It will?” Aurélien said, a little bemused.
“Everything can be fixed, Aurélien.”
“I want Lanier to see it. And Vincent.”
“Bob, I don’t know if it’s really Vincent’s scene.”
“He has to see it. OK, after we sign Lanier.”
“I think that would be wise, Bob.”
“I want to see it again, I must say. Extraordinary piece.”
“You’ve seen it?” Aurélien said.
“Yeah. At Cannes, I think. Or possibly Berlin. Have we got a script yet, Kaiser?”
“There is no script. E
xtant.”
“We’ve got to get a synopsis. A treatment at least. Mike’ll want to see something on paper. He’ll never let Lanier go otherwise.”
“Shit. We need a goddamn writer, then,” Prevost said.
“Davide?” Berger said into the speakerphone. “We need a writer. Get Matt Friedrich.” He turned to Aurélien. “You’ll like him. One of the old school. What?” He listened to the phone again and sighed. “Aurélien, we’re having some trouble tracking down your beer. What do you say to a Dr Pepper?”
BOB BERGER. I have a theory about this town, this place. You have people in powerful executive positions who are, to put it kindly, very ordinary-looking types. I’m not talking about intellect, I’m talking about looks. The problem is these ordinary-looking people control the lives of individuals with sensational genetic advantages. That’s an unbelievably volatile mix, I can tell you. And it cuts both ways; it can be very uncomfortable. It’s fine for me, I’m a handsome guy, I’m in good shape. But for most of my colleagues … It’s the source of many of our problems. That’s why I took up golf.
LANIER CROSS. Tolstoy said: “Life is a tartine de merde that we are obliged to consume daily.”
“This is for me?” Aurélien said, looking at the house, its landscaped, multileveled sprawl, the wide maw of its vast garage.
