He decided to draw up a list of what constituted normal attitudes and behavior, based on what people did rather than on what they said.
Javits glances around. There’s a man in dark glasses drinking a fruit juice. He seems oblivious to his surroundings and is staring out to sea as if he were somewhere far from there. He’s smartly dressed and good-looking, with graying hair. He was one of the first to arrive and must know who Javits is, and yet he’s made no effort to come and introduce himself. It was brave of him to sit there alone like that. Being alone in Cannes is anathema; it means that no one is interested in you, that you’re unimportant or don’t know anyone.
He envies that man, who probably doesn’t fit the list of “normal” behavior he always keeps in his pocket. He seems so independent and free; if Javits weren’t feeling so tired, he would really like to talk to him.
He turns to one of his “friends.”
“What does being normal mean?”
“Is your conscience troubling you? Have you done something you shouldn’t have?”
Javits has clearly asked the wrong question of the wrong man. His companion will perhaps assume that he’s regretting what he’s made of his life and that he wants to start anew, but that isn’t it at all. And if he does have regrets, it’s too late to begin again; he knows the rules of the game.
“I asked you what being normal means?”
One of the “friends” looks bewildered. The other keeps surveying the tent, watching people come and go.
“Living like someone who lacks all ambition,” the first “friend” says at last.
Javits takes his list out of his pocket and puts it on the table.
“I always have this with me and I add to it all the time.”
The “friend” says that he can’t look at it now because he has to keep alert to what’s going on around them. The other man, though, more relaxed and confident, reads the list out loud:
1. Normal is anything that makes us forget who we are and what we want; that way we can work in order to produce, reproduce, and earn money.
2. Setting out rules for waging war (the Geneva Convention).
3. Spending years studying at university only to find at the end of it all that you’re unemployable.
4. Working from nine till five every day at something that gives you no pleasure at all just so that, after thirty years, you can retire.
5. Retiring and discovering that you no longer have enough energy to enjoy life and dying a few years later of sheer boredom.
6. Using Botox.
7. Believing that power is much more important than money and that money is much more important than happiness.
8. Making fun of anyone who seeks happiness rather than money and accusing them of “lacking ambition.”
9. Comparing objects like cars, houses, clothes, and defining life according to those comparisons, instead of trying to discover the real reason for being alive.
10. Never talking to strangers. Saying nasty things about the neighbors.
11. Believing that your parents are always right.
12. Getting married, having children, and staying together long after all love has died, saying that it’s for the good of the children (who are, apparently, deaf to the constant rows).
12a. Criticizing anyone who tries to be different.
14. Waking up each morning to a hysterical alarm clock on the bedside table.
15. Believing absolutely everything that appears in print.
16. Wearing a scrap of colored cloth around your neck, even though it serves no useful purpose, but which answers to the name of “tie.”
17. Never asking a direct question, even though the other person can guess what it is you want to know.
18. Keeping a smile on your lips even when you’re on the verge of tears. Feeling sorry for those who show their feelings.
19. Believing that art is either worth a fortune or worth nothing at all.
20. Despising anything that was easy to achieve because if no sacrifice was involved, it obviously isn’t worth having.
21. Following fashion trends, however ridiculous or uncomfortable.
22. Believing that all famous people have tons of money saved up.
23. Investing a lot of time and money in external beauty and caring little about inner beauty.
24. Using every means possible to show that, although you’re just an ordinary human being, you’re far above other mortals.
25. Never looking anyone in the eye when you’re traveling on public transport, in case it’s interpreted as a sign you’re trying to get off with them.
26. Standing facing the door in an elevator and pretending you’re the only person there, regardless of how crowded it is.
27. Never laughing too loudly in a restaurant however good the joke.
28. In the northern hemisphere, always dressing according to the season: bare arms in spring (however cold it is) and woolen jacket in autumn (however hot it is).
29. In the southern hemisphere, covering the Christmas tree with fake snow even though winter has nothing to do with the birth of Christ.
30. Assuming, as you grow older, that you’re the guardian of the world’s wisdom, even if you haven’t necessarily lived enough to know what’s right and wrong.
31. Going to a charity tea party and thinking that you’ve done your bit toward putting an end to social inequality in the world.
32. Eating three times a day even if you’re not hungry.
33. Believing that other people are always better than you—better-looking, more capable, richer, more intelligent—and that it’s very dangerous to step outside your own limits, so it’s best to do nothing.
34. Using your car as a weapon and as impenetrable armor.
35. Swearing when in heavy traffic.
36. Believing that everything your child does wrong is entirely down to the company he or she keeps.
37. Marrying the first person who offers you a decent position in society. Love can wait.
38. Always saying, “I tried” when you didn’t really try at all.
39. Postponing doing the really interesting things in life for later, when you won’t have the energy.
40. Avoiding depression with large daily doses of television.
41. Believing that you can be sure of everything you’ve achieved.
42. Assuming that women don’t like football and that men aren’t interested in home decoration and cooking.
43. Blaming the government for all the bad things that happen.
44. Thinking that being a good, decent, respectable person will mean that others will see you as weak, vulnerable, and easy to manipulate.
45. Being equally convinced that aggression and rudeness are synonymous with having a “powerful personality.”
46. Being afraid of having an endoscopy (if you’re a man) and giving birth (if you’re a woman).
The “friend” laughs.
“You should make a film on the subject,” he says.
“Not again,” Javits thinks. “They have no idea. They’re with me all the time, but they still don’t understand what I do. I don’t make films.”
All films start out in the mind of a so-called producer. He’s read a book, say, or had a brilliant idea while driving along the freeways of Los Angeles (which is really a large suburb in search of a city). Unfortunately, he’s alone, both in the car and in his desire to transform that brilliant idea into something that can be seen on the screen.
He finds out if the film rights to the book are still available. If the response is negative, he goes in search of another product—after all, more than sixty thousand books are published each year in the United States alone. If the response is positive, he phones the author and makes the lowest possible offer, which is usually accepted because it’s not only actors and actresses who like to be associated with the dream machine. Every author feels more important when his or her words are transformed into images.
They arrange to have
lunch. The producer says that the book is “a work of art and highly cinematographic” and that the writer is “a genius deserving of recognition.” The writer explains that he spent five years working on the book and asks to be allowed to help in the writing of the script. “No, really, you shouldn’t do that, it’s an entirely different medium,” comes the reply, “but I know you’ll love the result.” Then he adds: “The film will be totally true to the book,” which, as both of them know, is a complete and utter lie.
The writer decides that he should agree to the conditions, promising himself that next time will be different. He accepts. The producer now says that they have to interest one of the big studios because they need financial backing for the project. He names a few stars he claims to have lined up for the lead roles—which is another complete and utter lie, but one that is always wheeled out and always works as a seduction technique. He buys what is known as an “option,” that is, he pays around ten thousand dollars to retain the rights for three years. And then what happens? “Then we’ll pay ten times that amount and you’ll have a right to two percent of the net profits.” That’s the financial part of the conversation over with, because the writer is convinced he’ll earn a fortune from his slice of the profits.
If he were to ask around, he’d soon find out that the Hollywood accountants somehow manage it so that no film ever makes a profit.
Lunch ends with the producer handing the writer a huge contract and asking if he could possibly sign it now, so that the studio will know that the product is definitely theirs. With his eyes fixed on that (nonexistent) percentage and on the possibility of seeing his name in lights (which won’t happen either, at most there’ll be a line in the credits, saying: “Based on the book by…”), the writer signs the contract without giving the matter much thought.
Vanity of vanities, all is vanity, and there is nothing new under the sun, as Solomon said more than three thousand years ago.
The producer starts knocking on the doors of various studios. He’s known in the industry already, and so some of those doors open, but his proposal is not always accepted. In that case, he doesn’t even bother to ring up the author and invite him to lunch again, he just writes him a letter saying that, despite his enthusiasm for the project, the movie industry isn’t yet ready for that kind of story and he’s returning the contract (which he, of course, did not sign).
If the proposal is accepted, the producer then goes to the lowest and least well-paid person in the hierarchy: the screenwriter, the person who will spend days, weeks, and months writing and rewriting the original idea or the screen adaptation. The scripts are sent to the producer (but never to the author), who, out of habit, automatically rejects the first draft, knowing that the screenwriter can always do better. More weeks and months of coffee and insomnia for the bright young talent (or old hack—there are no halfway houses) who rewrites each scene, which are then rejected or reshaped by the producer. (And the screenwriter thinks: “If he can write so damn well, why doesn’t he write the whole thing?” Then he remembers his salary and goes quietly back to his computer.)
Finally, the script is almost ready. At this point, the producer draws up a list of demands: the removal of any political references that might upset a more conservative audience; more kissing, because women like that kind of thing; a story with a beginning, a middle, and an end, and a hero who moves everyone to tears with his self-sacrifice and devotion; and one character who loses a loved one at the start of the film and finds him or her again at the end. In fact, most film scripts can be summed up very briefly as: Man loves woman. Man loses woman. Man gets woman back. Ninety percent of all films are variations on that same theme.
Films that break this rule have to be very violent to make up for it, or have loads of crowd-pleasing special effects. And since this tried and tested formula is a surefire winner, why take any unnecessary risks?
ARMED WITH WHAT HE CONSIDERS to be a well-written story, whom does the producer seek out next? The studio who financed the project. The studio, however, has a long line of films to place in the ever-diminishing number of cinemas around the world. They ask him to wait a little or to find an independent distributor, first making sure that the producer signs another gigantic contract (which even takes into account exclusive rights “outside of Planet Earth”), taking full responsibility for all money spent.
“And that’s where people like me come in!” The independent distributor can walk down the street without being recognized, although at media-fests like this everyone knows who he is. He’s the person who didn’t come up with the idea, didn’t work on the script, and didn’t invest a cent.
Javits is the intermediary—the distributor!
He receives the producer in a tiny office (the big plane, the house with the swimming pool, the invitations to parties all over the world are purely for his enjoyment—the producer doesn’t even merit a mineral water). He takes the DVD home with him. He watches the first five minutes. If he likes it, he watches to the end, but this only happens with one out of every hundred new films he’s given. Then he spends ten cents on a phone call and tells the producer to come back on a certain date and at a certain time.
“We’ll sign,” he says, as if he were doing the producer a big favor. “I’ll distribute the film.”
The producer tries to negotiate. He wants to know how many cinemas in how many countries and under what conditions. These, however, are pointless questions because he knows what the distributor will say: “That depends on the reactions we get at the prelaunch screenings.” The product is shown to selected audiences from all social classes, people specially chosen by market research companies. The results are analyzed by professionals. If the results are positive, another ten cents gets spent on a phone call, and, the following day, Javits hands the producer three copies of yet another vast contract. The producer asks to be given time for his lawyer to read it. Javits says he has nothing against him doing that, but he needs to finalize that season’s program now and can’t guarantee that by the time the producer gets back to him he won’t have selected another film.
The producer reads only the clause that tells him how much he’s going to earn. He’s pleased with what he sees and so he signs. He doesn’t want to miss this opportunity.
Years have passed since he sat down with the writer to discuss making a film of his book and he’s quite forgotten that he is now in exactly the same situation.
Vanity of vanities, all is vanity, and there is nothing new under the sun, as Solomon said more than three thousand years ago.
JAVITS WATCHES THE TENT FILLING up with guests and again asks himself what he’s doing there. He controls more than five hundred cinemas in the United States and has an exclusive contract with another five thousand around the world, where exhibitors are obliged to buy everything he offers them, even if the films don’t always work out. They know that one box-office success more than makes up for the other five that fail to pull in the crowds. They rely on Javits, the independent megadistributor, the hero who managed to break the monopoly of the big studios and become a legend in the film world.
No one has ever asked how he did this, but since he continues to give them one big success for every five failures (the average in the big studios is one blockbuster for every nine flops), it really doesn’t matter.
Javits, however, knows how he became so successful, which is why he never goes anywhere without his two “friends,” who are, at that moment, busily answering calls, arranging meetings and accepting invitations. They both have reasonably normal physiques, not like the burly bouncers on the door, but they’re worth a whole army. They trained in Israel and have served in Uganda, Argentina, and Panama. One fields phone calls and the other is constantly looking around, memorizing each person, each movement, each gesture. They alternate these tasks because, like simultaneous translators and air controllers, they need to rest every fifteen minutes.
What is he doing at this “lunch”? He could have stayed at the hot
el, trying to get some sleep. He’s tired of being fawned over and praised, and of having to smile every minute and tell someone that it’s really not worth their while giving him their card because he’ll only lose it. When they insist, he asks them gently to speak to one of his secretaries (duly housed at another luxury hotel on the Boulevard de la Croisette, where they are not allowed to sleep, but must answer the phone that rings nonstop or reply to the e-mails flooding in from cinemas all over the world, along with the promises of increased penis size or multiple orgasms that manage to elude all the spam filters). Depending on how he nods his head, one of his two assistants will either give the person the secretary’s address or phone number, or say that unfortunately they’re fresh out of cards.
Yes, what is he doing at this “lunch”? He would be sleeping now in Los Angeles, however late he might have got home from a party. Javits knows the answer, but he doesn’t want to accept it: he’s afraid of being alone. He envies the man who arrived earlier and sat drinking his fruit juice, staring off into the distance, apparently relaxed and unconcerned about trying to look busy or important. He decides to invite him to join him for a drink, but notices he’s no longer there.
Just then, he feels something prick him in the back.
“Mosquitoes! That’s what I hate about beach parties.”
When he goes to scratch the bite, he finds a small needle. It must be some stupid prank. He looks behind him and, about two yards away, separated from him by various other guests, a black guy with dreadlocks is laughing loudly, while a group of women gaze at him with mingled respect and desire.
The Winner Stands Alone Page 6
