by Tracy Kiely
There was a faint gasp from the audience. Next to me, Nigel opened his eyes and sat up in his seat. “Well, this should be good,” he whispered.
Fastening her eyes on John, Christina continued, her voice soft. “Lord knows we’ve had our ups and downs, John, but I want you to know that I think you are one of the best actors out there today. You make everyone around you look good. I feel truly blessed to have been able to work with you again.”
Around us, people craned their necks to gage not only John’s reaction to this speech, but also that of the young woman’s sitting next to him.
Neither disappointed.
John’s eyes locked on Christina’s with an expression of pride tinged with sadness. He bowed his dark head in acknowledgement of Christina’s words before he, like their director, blew her a kiss. His gesture, however, had a far more intimate feel. As before, Christina pretended to catch the kiss. However, this time she did not return it. Instead, she balled her hand into a fist and held it close to her chest. “I think I’ll hang on to this one for old time’s sake,” she said with a small smile.
The reaction of the woman next to John, Jules Dixon, was Hollywood drama at its finest. Her full, pink lips stretched into a tight smile across her round, kewpie doll face. Grabbing John’s hand, she gave it a tight squeeze before leaning over into his seat and placing a possessive kiss on his cheek. John barely acknowledged the gesture. His gaze remained locked on Christina’s.
From the podium, Christina gently kissed her still-balled hand before smiling her thanks again to the crowd and gracefully making her way off stage.
“Now, that is what I call great acting,” said Nigel with a grin.
I looked over to where John and Jules sat. His face was unreadable. The same could not be said for Jules. She stared straight ahead, her eyes bright with anger; the brittle smile on her face fooling no one.
five
After that, conversation mainly focused on rehashing the sordid details of the love triangle that was Christina, John, and Jules. “It’s clear that she still loves him,” announced a woman sheathed in a black silk gown seated behind me. “Despite his horrible behavior, she still loves him.”
Her companion disagreed. “Oh, Dotty, how can you say that?” she chastised as she adjusted the strap of her gold dress. “After all their years together, he goes and gets that girl pregnant! Why, she’s almost twenty years younger than he is! There is no way Christina still loves him. She’s too smart for that.”
Sometime after that, the man in front of us groused, “I don’t see what the big deal is. John and Christina had been together for what—twenty years? The relationship had obviously run its course, and he found somebody new. It happens all the time.”
“It hadn’t run its course, you idiot,” his wife hissed at him. “After Jules held that ridiculous press conference—from her hospital room, no less—announcing that the baby was John’s, Christina made him do the right thing and marry her. He doesn’t love Jules anymore than I love the way you suck your teeth, which by-the-way, is absolutely disgusting.”
Later, a woman to my left wearing a pink trumpet gown, said, “I never understood why Barry Meagher ever cast Jules Dixon in The Morning Came Early in the first place. The only thing that girl knows how to do is take off her clothes and pout. The very idea of her playing a studious Jewish girl trying to save her family from the Nazis is ludicrous!”
“I know,” agreed her date. “I can’t image what the movie would have been like had she not gotten pregnant and dropped out. I keep picturing her trying to do a striptease with a snood.”
In the ladies’ room, a woman reapplying lipstick in the mirror sniffed smugly and said, “Well, that’s what happens when you put career first. Christina and John never had any kids because she was more concerned with making movies than making babies.”
“How do you figure that?” her friend demanded as she fluffed her blonde hair. “John met Jules while the three of them were filming The Morning Came Early. Why would you think that if Christina was home with a baby the affair wouldn’t have happened?”
In the lobby, a balding man with a well-developed paunch said to his equally rotund friend, “I don’t care if Jules Dixon can’t act her way out of a paper bag. With a body like that, she doesn’t need to. I mean, Christina’s still good-looking and all, but let’s face it, she’s pushing forty. Let me tell you, once they hit that age, it’s all downhill.”
“John Cummings is one lucky son-of-a-bitch,” his friend agreed as he tossed back the rest of his scotch. “Hell, I wouldn’t say no to a fling with Jules Dixon, even if it meant being hit with a palimony suit.”
Two women who, based on their disgusted expressions, I guessed to be their wives returned from the restroom in time to hear this. The taller of the two jabbed a lethally manicured finger into the soft spot of the first man’s stomach. “Oh, is that true, Mr. I-Wheeze-if-I-Have-to-Go-Up-a-Flight-of-Stairs? And you think you’re some prize? Did someone forget to tell me that perpetual upper lip sweat is all the rage?”
“I’m just curious how you think you could even get someone like Jules Dixon, let alone get her pregnant, when you need Viagra just to go to the bathroom?” the second woman scoffed at the scotch drinker.
“Well, if you ask me, Jules Dixon is a no-class, piece-of-work,” said another woman at the bar, her arms crossed tightly across her ample chest. “Did you read where she said Johnny had never been happy with Christina, and that their relationship was all a ploy by the publicity department? Not once has either Johnny or Christina said one mean word about the other to the press since their split. But apparently Jules didn’t get a copy of the ‘We’re Going to Act Like Adults’ memo. She’s unbelievable. I mean, really, can you believe her?”
“For the last time, Martha, I have no idea who you are talking about nor do I care to,” replied her weary husband. “Now do you want a damn drink or not?”
Footage from the set of
A Winter’s Night
5/2/96
The scene is a 1940s nightclub. John and Melanie sit at a table near a dance floor. Around them the film crew bustles about preparing the scene. John and Melanie sit in silence ignoring one another. Just off to the right Barry sits in his director’s chair reading notes. A trim blonde with a forced smile approaches him. It is Janice Franklin, Christina’s mother.
JANICE
Barry! There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.
BARRY (not looking up)
How perceptive of you to think to look for me here. Your detractors clearly have underestimated you.
JANICE (smile slips)
You’re such a teaser.
BARRY (still not looking up)
I’ve been called many things, Janice. Thankfully, that has never been one of them. (Finally looks up and pushes his reading glasses on his head) What do you want, Janice?
JANICE
Well, it’s about Christina.
BARRY
Imagine my surprise.
JANICE
Yes, well, I wanted to talk to you about the Kitchen Scene. The one where Christina receives the break-up letter from her boyfriend? And then she breaks down and cries at the table?
BARRY (sighing)
I’m familiar with the scene, Janice. What about it?
JANICE
Well, I just heard that it’s being cut. Is this true?
BARRY
It is. The movie is going to run long as it is. I’ve got to trim the excess.
JANCIE
But that’s one of Christina’s best scenes! And it’s her only solo scene!
BARRY
I’m aware of that, Janice. Unfortunately, we can’t keep every scene or we are going to end up with a five-hour movie.
JANICE
So, cut something else! What about that scene with Melanie in t
he tub? I don’t see why we need that. She barely says a word in it.
BARRY (incredulous)
I’m sorry. Did you really just suggest that I cut the scene in which the main character contemplates killing herself ? The scene that is basically the turning point of the whole movie?
JANICE (crossing her arms over her chest)
I just think it’s a little over done, that’s all. I’m sure you could get across the point without taking up so much screen time. It’s five minutes long, for Christ’s sake! I know it’s Melanie we’re talking about here, but surely even she’s capable of appearing to make a decision in a shorter amount of time.
BARRY (rubbing his eyes wearily)
Please go away, Janice. I’m barely holding on by a thread as it is today. I simply can’t deal with your crazy right now.
JANICE (angrily)
My … my … what? Did you just call me crazy? Me? I’m not the one who is turning this movie into a one-woman showcase for Melanie Summers! Last time I checked, this movie was about a family’s struggles—not just one girl’s perpetual navel gazing!
BARRY
It is a movie about a family, but the main character of that family—and the catalyst for most of the story—is Hanna. And I know you don’t like this, but Melanie got the role of Hanna. Not Christina. So, unless you have something meaningful to say—which I grant you would be a first—I’d prefer it if you’d shut the hell up and let me direct my movie!
JANICE (not moving)
What the hell is going on here, Barry? Ever since we’ve started shooting, you’ve changed the focus of this film. It’s all about Melanie. I get that she’s the star, but she’s not the only character. And yet every day, you cut another scene so you can make one of hers longer.
BARRY (putting his glasses back on
and reading his notes again)
Once again, I have no idea what you’re talking about, Janice.
JANICE
Oh, I think you do. There’s something rotten going on around here. And I intend to find out what it is.
Janice turns and storms away. After a moment, Barry pushes his glasses back onto his head and frowns at her retreating form.
six
The after parties at the Oscars are a glitzier version of the high school bashes depicted in a John Hughes film; only the cool, rich kids are invited and even once inside those gilded walls, cliques still abound. The pinnacle of all these parties is, of course, the iconic gala hosted by Vanity Fair. Here the famous, the powerful, and the beautiful (and more often than not, a combination of all three) gather to gossip, celebrate, and network.
Nigel and I pushed our way past the throngs of press parked along Sunset Strip and presented our invitation to the alarmingly large, albeit polite, doorman. After he verified its authenticity, we were granted entry past the barricades and into the privileged sanctum beyond. My years on the force had left me more than a little cynical, but even I found myself starstruck at the scene before me. Here was Hollywood’s elite, encircling me in a heady blur of expensive tuxedos, sequined gowns, false eyelashes, and tanned skin. As a variety of oldies songs played from hidden speakers, they mingled and congratulated one another all while scarfing down a seemingly never-ending supply of cocktails and cheeseburgers. The polite composure on display during the ceremony had been replaced with one far more casual. Shoes were removed; golden statues were employed as microphones, and outbursts of dancing were neither infrequent nor frowned upon.
Orbiting this celestial constellation was a steady stream of glam cigarette girls who cheerfully dispensed candy and e-cigarettes, the later being the only indication that we hadn’t fallen through a wormhole and traveled back in time.
Nigel quickly snagged two flutes of champagne, and we made our way farther into the room. In one corner, I saw Steven Spielberg chatting with Tom Hanks and Rita Wilson. In another, Robert De Niro shared a joke with Ben Stiller. It was hard not to stare.
As Nigel and I helped ourselves to the complimentary cheeseburgers, Mandy approached us with a wide smile. The microphone she held earlier had been replaced with an e-cigarette. In her other hand was a glass of wine.
“Since when did you start smoking?” I asked her as she drew closer.
“About five minutes after the show ended,” she said. “That goddamn juice cleanse was like having a weeklong colonoscopy. I feel like I have to counteract it with a few weeks of really bad habits.”
“I don’t see why people have such a hard time with juice cleanses,” Nigel said. “I think they’re pretty easy.”
“Nigel,” I said with a shake of my head, “for the hundredth time, cranberry juice and vodka do not constitute a juice cleanse.”
Mandy gave a lusty sigh. “God, but wouldn’t it be great if it did?” She took another puff of her cigarette and asked, “So, what did you think of the show?”
“It was a little long,” Nigel and I said in unison.
Mandy rolled her eyes in agreement. “When is it not? That should be its tag line ‘The Oscars—It’s a Little Long.’”
I quickly pressed my finger over Nigel’s mouth and turned to Mandy. “What about you?” I asked as Nigel laughed. “Were you happy with it?”
Mandy nodded and took a deep puff of her cigarette. “I got my interviews, and it ended on time. That’s all I ever really care about. Of course, all anyone can really talk about is Christina’s acceptance speech,” said Mandy. “Speaking of which, what did you make of it?” she asked, her eyes bright.
“Pretty gracious, all things considered,” I said.
Mandy gave an unlady-like snort. “Are you sure you used to be a detective?” she teased. “Because, if you ask me, it was payback tied up in a pretty gold bow. Karma is a bitch, and Christina just gave it John’s address.”
“How so?” Nigel asked.
Mandy took a puff of her cigarette. “Because Christina managed to plant the idea in Jules’s tiny brain that things aren’t over between her and John.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked.
“Jules is in a royal snit,” said Mandy. “Not that that is anything new, of course. Jules Dixon has never been one to hide her emotions. Unless,” she added archly, “she’s in front of a camera.” She then tilted her chin toward the back of the room. “The ‘happy couple’ is over there,” she said. “If you look closely, you’ll note that Jules is trying not to appear like she wants to throw her drink in his face, and John is surreptitiously collecting napkins in case she does.”
I glanced to where Mandy indicated. Jules and John were in the far corner of the room. They did not touch one another. They did not speak to one another. Eye contact was apparently also taboo.
“They don’t exactly radiate joy, do they?” I said.
“Nope, they sure don’t,” Mandy responded with a grin.
I glanced at her. “You certainly seem to be getting a kick out of this. Why?”
Mandy shrugged. “No reason, really. I just don’t get the fascination with Jules.”
I made a rude noise. “You don’t get the fascination with a twenty-something-year-old who has the body of a lingerie model and who was once described by an ex as being ‘a sexual ninja in bed’?” I asked. “Seriously?”
“Back up,” Nigel said, holding up his hand. “A sexual ninja? Is that good or bad?”
“Good,” Mandy and I answered in unison.
“Really?” he asked, his expression unconvinced. “I mean, to each his own and all that, but it sounds more risky than risqué. Those nunchucks can be deadly. Especially in the wrong hands.”
“That could be said about a lot of things,” I said.
“You do have a point there,” Nigel said. “In fact, it reminds me of a girl I once heard of who …”
“I just don’t think John should get his happily ever after,” Mandy said interrupting. “Christina is a
sweetheart, and she was devoted to John. I hate it when the men in this town think it’s okay to trade in for the newer model. It’s pathetic.” She turned to Nigel for support. “You wouldn’t leave Nic and marry a younger woman, would you?”
“Of course not,” he replied, his tone appalled. Taking a sip of champagne, he added, “Do you have any idea how much weddings cost these days? It’s obscene.”
“Mother always said to marry a man with good financial sense,” I confided happily to Mandy as I linked my arm through Nigel’s.
Footage from the set of
A Winter’s Tale
