Real Estate attorney Sara Connelly exclaimed, “I love it.” Periodontist Alan Fisch said, “Four stars!” Elderly Ellie Kirby stuck two fingers in her mouth and let out a piercing whistle.
Paul bounded to the front of the room, beaming from ear to ear, gesturing for Harry to join him. Harry rose from his seat in the back row and staggered forward, shaken by the rapturous response from a group that had previously scorned him.
Jimmy Nancarrow, the car dealership owner from Santa Monica, said, “Now there’s a movie I’m proud to put my name on.”
Paul hugged Harry. “Is this guy awesome or what? I think you all underestimated him.” Paul thumped a finger against Harry’s temple. It hurt and Harry jerked his head back. “There’s a brilliant mind in that skull,” said Paul. “We should all feel lucky to be associated with him.”
Paul gestured to Dick the Greek in the third row. “Dick, could you please stand? I have some big news for all of you here today. I hope by now all of you know Dick Stokapolis, a longtime investor in our productions.”
Dick stood and faced the other investors proudly.
Paul announced, “Dick has agreed to fund the video-to-film transfer of Deadly Desires. This movie is going directly to the big screen.”
The investors broke out into applause.
Paul became louder and more animated, as if addressing a pep rally. “We are going to have a big Los Angeles premiere next month, and all of you are invited! We’ll roll out the red carpet. We’ll invite the press. Jimmy, maybe you can help us rent some flood lamps so we can light up the sky. The candy counter will be on me. Free Goobers and Raisinets for everybody. Let’s have a celebration!”
Deadly Desires held its premiere in downtown Los Angeles, on Broadway at the plush, intimate Kino Theater. The excited investors arrived armed with cameras, snapping pictures of the theater’s elegant exterior and bright marquee. A few trade reporters attended, but the screening essentially became a party for PJ Productions, its investors, friends and family. They cleaned out the candy counter in 20 minutes.
Harry and Paul kept a watchful eye on Tom Cole, a reviewer from Variety. They made sure he had a good seat, unobstructed by tall people with big hair, and plenty of refreshments. Paul chatted nervously with Cole before the film started, shoving Harry at him, and complimenting the reviewer a few too many times on his exquisite prose and excellent taste.
Cole left quickly after the screening concluded.
“Do you think he liked it?” Harry asked Paul.
The answer arrived the following week when a glowing review ran in Variety, captioned, ‘Desires’ delivers shocks on a shoestring.
Initially, Paul planned to generate a buzz with midnight screenings in New York, Chicago, and San Francisco, and showings at college campuses. But a buzz had already started humming.
Soon, Paul and the distributor could barely keep up generating enough prints to feed the demand. Deadly Desires initially appeared on a handful of screens in a limited number of urban markets, and then crept into more cities, as well as the suburbs of the film’s initial markets. The box office figures showed muscle, and momentum continued to build. More reviews appeared, all of them good to great, and the word-of-mouth spread fast, especially among younger moviegoers.
The grosses grew. Paul fed money into further marketing and promotion. The number of screens climbed to a hundred. Before long, Deadly Desires entered the mainstream, raiding the multiplexes.
One morning, Paul phoned Harry at home and screamed into his ear, “We’re on twelve hundred screens with a per screen average gross of four thousand, seven hundred dollars; and that critic from Chicago just gave you three-and-a-half stars, and he’s syndicated! This is more than a cult following, Harry. This movie is going to be the biggest grossing indie of the year.”
Harry sat inside the Village Coffee Shop at the foot of the Hollywood Hills, sipping his strawberry Frappuccino, nibbling on a raisin bagel, and checking out the weekend grosses, latest rankings, and number of screens for Deadly Desires.
“Harry Tuttle!” shouted Frank Gleason, approaching the table with a big grin. “What a pleasure to run into you. I didn’t know you come here. How are things?”
Harry had seen Gleason, a powerful DreamWorks executive, at the coffee shop many times in the past; and Gleason had always averted his eyes in a haughty manner that read, “I’m pretending not to see you.” But now Gleason jumped to his side as if they were best friends.
Harry chatted with Gleason politely and accepted a heap of praise for Deadly Desires.
“I really love what you did with the handhelds and your lighting scheme, very stark, yet a richness, and those natural performances...”
Gleason continued schmoozing, and Harry found himself bored by the insincerity. He nodded while gazing out the window. He scanned the sidewalk for pretty women. Then he noticed someone familiar...
...and almost exclaimed “Oh shit!” out loud.
It was Marcus Stegman.
Stegman looked awful. His hair was longer, greasier. His clothes were dirty. He didn’t look like somebody who had just been handed eight hundred thousand dollars.
Stegman talked with another, equally grubby young man in a tattered army jacket. The man handed Stegman something in a small plastic bag, shielding it from street view with his back.
Stegman was buying drugs.
“...on location in Mexico? Harry?”
Harry snapped his attention back to Gleason. “I’m sorry... I didn’t mean to space out. I’ve been...”
“I know the feeling,” said Gleason. “All this success kind of knocks the wind out of you, doesn’t it? Well, enjoy it. Savor it. In this business, you can be king of the world one day and flat on your ass the next. Ha ha!”
Gleason left. Harry looked back at Stegman. Stegman extracted bills from a wad of cash in his hand.
Guilt hammered Harry. I took advantage of a dope addict. I bribed him, stole his movie, and contributed to his drug habit. Way to go, Tuttle. You’re getting famous at this poor kid’s expense. Hope you feel just great when you accept your Oscar while he overdoses on crack.
Just then, Stegman turned and faced the coffee shop window. Harry froze. But Stegman seemed to stare right through him. Harry realized that Stegman couldn’t see him through the sun reflecting on the glass.
Stegman looked back at the filthy man in the army jacket and completed the transaction. Stegman coughed a few times, wiped his nose with the back of his hand, and walked away.
Harry stared down at the table. He looked at the expensive gold watch on his wrist, the gift from Paul, inscribed “Scary Harry.” A generous gesture from his business partner to recognize and celebrate Harry’s moviemaking bravura.
Harry wanted to rip the watch from his flesh.
17
Rachel returned to her apartment after a full day of auditions where she discovered she was (a) too short, (b) too cute, (c) lacked edge, and (d) looked too young for the roles she sought. She had learned long ago not to take such rejections personally —she knew it was simply a matter of casting directors finding the right DNA match for a character that existed on the written page. She wished that she was a better chameleon, able to fit into any mold. Her acting coach had worked hard with her to find a “wider palette of colors.” A common criticism concerned her voice: soft and thin. “Too much bubble,” said one of her instructors. “Where’s the rage, the intensity simmering beneath the surface?”
But she wasn’t naturally angry or intense, and it was a tough emotion to fake. She would try to harden her features, purse her lips, narrow her eyes; but it didn’t look very convincing.
Once, her roommate Maria caught her trying to make moody faces in the mirror and burst out laughing.
“Maybe I should just do comedy,” said Rachel.
“You’re adorable. The camera loves you. You’ll find your niche. Maybe it is comedy.”
“What I really want is a romance.”
“A romance movie
, or romance in your life?” asked Maria.
“Both,” Rachel had replied.
Maria wasn’t home when Rachel stepped into the apartment. Rachel felt disappointed because she loved to commiserate with her roommate. Maria could reach back into her own well of audition stories, and usually top any humiliating rejections Rachel had experienced. One of the classics was the time a director dropped Maria from a music video for having breasts that were “out of proportion” with her hips.
Rachel made herself a peanut butter and banana slices sandwich —a favorite since childhood —and brought it with her to the couch with a bottle of Snapple. She aimed the remote at the TV and started surfing. She was always encouraged when she found bad acting —usually on the soaps —because it lifted her confidence. Hey, I could do that.
She flipped past —then back to — Flick Picks, a movie review program featuring Walter Wiggins, the renowned film critic for the Los Angeles Star. Unlike most critics, Wiggins was an entertaining presence himself, wearing flamboyant colors, waving his arms to punctuate his opinions, and speaking with an aggressive yet prissy voice. He was short and round, filling the screen so completely that it looked like he might push the glass out of the television. Rachel always enjoyed Flick Picks, keeping up with the new releases and catching glimpses of the stars in action. Also, for better or worse, she found that Wig-gins’ tastes in movies often ran parallel with her own.
Wiggins was finishing up panning a cardboard-thin comedy featuring a former Saturday Night Live comedian. “This is poo poo potty humor that wouldn’t go over in a high school locker room. Flush it,” he said, fanning a hand in front of his nose for emphasis. “I rank Jock Itch...a dud!” On the screen, a graphic appeared of a pile of Milk Duds.
Rachel giggled. For really bad movies, Wiggins sometimes added the sound effect of a falling bomb.
Wiggins faced the camera from a different angle and began his next review. Rachel had reached for L.A. Weekly to skim, but yanked her hand back when she heard Wiggins utter a familiar name, “Harry Tuttle.”
“I know that guy,” she said out loud.
“A while back, I opened one of my programs by bashing a movie by Harry Tuttle, a notorious director of super-cheap horror films that are mass-marketed like junk food to the indiscriminating public,” said Wiggins.
Poor Harry, thought Rachel. Why keep picking on him?
But then Wiggins brightened his tone. “Well, believe it or not, from this crude craftsman, a truly good movie has arrived, Deadly Desires.”
On the screen, a clip from Deadly Desires showed a handsome but fierce young man chasing a woman through the woods. The camera shook, offering jolting point-of-view shots. In a voice-over Wiggins continued, “Sure, it’s got a minuscule budget; but in this instance the rough, trimmed-down scale of the movie works to a scary advantage. The story is a contemporary take on ritual human sacrifice.”
In the clip, the man caught up with the woman. He grasped a strange-looking dagger in a close-up. The blade plunged toward the victim and the program quickly cut back to Wiggins, leaning forward and enthusiastic.
“Writer-director Harry Tuttle, amazingly, is the same man who made the unbearable The Beastly earlier this year. This time out, however, Tuttle has left behind the rubber monster suits. He’s dealing with a more human kind of monster, based on themes of power and greed, for today’s cynical society. The result is a truly frightening little gem. My recommendation for Deadly Desires is...Extra Large!” The screen showed a graphic of an enormous popcorn bucket, Wiggins’ highest rating.
Rachel said to the screen, “Harry, I misjudged you.” She now felt foolish over turning down the opportunity to appear in his next film. Why didn’t she just grab the part? The role was gone now. That’ll teach you to be judgmental and snooty, she told herself. You never know who’s gonna hit it big in this town.
When Maria returned home, Rachel announced, “You’ll never guess who just got a rave review on Flick Picks.”
Rachel described the review for Deadly Desires and Maria said, “That movie’s supposed to be really good. He did it? The same guy who made those bad videos?”
“I blew it big time,” said Rachel. “He’s such a nice guy, and he had a role all picked out for me; and I told him no.”
“When you told him no, did you let him down easy?” asked Maria.
“Sure, I was polite. I wasn’t mean. You know me.”
“Then maybe you didn’t burn any bridges. It’s not too late. Call him up.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Sure you can. Better yet, ask him out to dinner. He sounds like someone you should get to know better.”
“I don’t want to appear opportunistic.”
“How do you think careers get made in this town? I’ll bet he says yes. Who would say no to dinner with a hot and sexy young starlet like you?”
Rachel giggled. “Knock it off. I’m not going to call him, and that’s that.”
But 30 minutes of pestering later, Rachel relented. She called Harry. She still had his number from the note inside his package of DVDs. The box had been put aside with the intention of selling the discs to a used record store.
Rachel sat on her bed with her notes spread out in front of her —lines of dialogue in case she got tongue-tied. Maria dialed the number and thrust the phone at her, stating, “You’re an actress. Here. Act brave.”
Harry picked up on the third ring.
Rachel said, “Hello, is this Harry Tuttle?”
“Speaking.”
“Hi, this is Rachel Stoller...you know, the actress...the flapper.” Rachel saw that Maria was making faces. She cupped a hand over her eyes to block Maria from her field of vision.
“Yes, yes,” responded Harry with enthusiasm. “Of course. How have you been? Still enjoying the Roaring Twenties?”
“Well, not anymore. I’m back in the 21st century. I’m doing a commercial for a new laundry detergent called Wipe Out. I do battle with a chocolate syrup stain.”
“That’s great. I’ll have to watch for it.”
After an awkward pause, she dove in. “Listen, I just saw your new movie, the one about human sacrifice, and I wanted you to know that I think it’s really awesome. I loved it. It’s my favorite movie of the year.”
“Thank you,” said Harry. “That’s very kind. I really appreciate it.”
“Dinner!” whispered Maria in the background.
Rachel said, “If you’re not busy, I was wondering if you’d like to get together for dinner. I feel I was a bit distracted by the miniseries last time we met, and I thought it would be nice to get together again. That is, if you’re interested.”
Rachel bit her lip, listened, got the response she was looking for, and gave Maria the thumbs up sign. Maria danced a silent dance at the foot of the bed.
“I’d love to get together,” said Harry.
18
Harry Tuttle sat at his desk reading the latest reviews for Deadly Desires. Nearly every write-up was positive. USA Today, The San Francisco Chronicle, Atlanta Journal-Constitution, Rolling Stone, Newsweek. The marketing people had an embarrassment of riches to choose from as they plucked the best blurbs for splashy, coast-to-coast newspaper ads.
“Nail-biting, edge-of-your-seat thrills.”
“Dark and gripping...screamingly good.”
“Terrifically terrifying.”
“A small masterpiece.”
Paul had just left the office to begin negotiations for the DVD release. “You won’t believe the numbers we’re discussing,” he told Harry before heading out the door.
A few days earlier, Walter Wiggins, the influential movie critic from the Los Angeles Star had given Deadly Desires an “Extra Large” recommendation on his TV show, resulting in a big spike in box office grosses over the weekend. As if that wasn’t enough, Wiggins called Harry directly the next day, to invite him to participate in a one-hour television special he was hosting on the new wave of independent filmmakers. “We’
ll chat, we’ll show clips,” said Wiggins. “You’ll be one of four directors I’m featuring.”
Harry said, “You really think people want to hear from me?”
Wiggins responded in his trademark haughty tone, “Mr. Tuttle, you’ve got a cult following. You’re the master of minimalist moviemaking. Might as well grab your 15 minutes of fame while it’s yours for the asking.”
Harry couldn’t believe it. Several months earlier, Wiggins had ridiculed Harry’s entire body of work. Now he wanted to prop him up on a pedestal in primetime. Harry felt like he had entered a strange, alternate universe. Perhaps during meditation he had stepped into one of his fantasies and never returned. Things were too good.
Then they got even better. The icing on the cake arrived, and it was sweet.
Rachel Stoller called him up and asked him out on a date.
Harry had developed a crush on Rachel from the moment he’d first laid eyes on her at Richard Metherell’s party in the Hollywood Hills. After she had gently rejected a role in his next movie, Harry had written her off as uninterested, unavailable, and way too good for him. She was on her way up; he was on his way down.
Now she was pursuing him. All because she had seen Deadly Desires and become attracted to the man behind the movie. She couldn’t stop raving about Deadly Desires when they spoke on the phone.
Harry thought, I’ve done a great job letting everybody else know I made Deadly Desires. Now if I could only convince myself...
Harry entered date night with the jitters. Ever since his wife left him to shack up with another, better filmmaker, Harry hadn’t gone out on many dates. For one thing, he worked long, tough hours. But more truthfully, his confidence had blown a gasket. He didn’t have Paul’s gift for pumping himself up with synthetic enthusiasm. When he felt low, it showed, and he wasn’t much fun to be around. It wasn’t a state that invited romantic companionship.
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