What Movies Made Me Do

by Susan Braudy

  “Who told you?” he asked.

  “Jack woke me up.”

  “Well, I hate to tell you, I found her red boot floating in a cave here.” His voice broke.

  “What?” I panicked.

  “We went over eight square miles of lagoons, desert, and rocks. I tell you, all you see is sand from an airplane. I haven’t slept in two nights. Now the police want to stop looking.”

  “No, no, out of the question,” I yelled.

  “It’s going to take cash. She could be lying in some sand hill we’d never find in a week.”

  “I’m sending ten thousand now.” I would withdraw it from my bank account to grease palms. That was the only way to hide the expense from the studio.

  “She could be drowned.”

  “She’s indestructible—” But my throat closed. In fact, she failed her swimming test at Bryn Mawr and conned her way out of it with a little documentary on maypole dancing. I rallied. “Hire more people on foot. Get the American consul in Tel Aviv to find you a helicopter to fly down closer.”

  “Don’t bark orders.”

  “Please hire more people on foot,” I said.

  “I will.”

  “Anyway, she just went off to think,” I said lamely. Rosemary nodded vigorously.

  Paul said, “That’s bullshit.”

  He was right. I didn’t want to think about that bad hip of hers. When it went out she was paralyzed.

  I clutched the phone. “She’s hiding out at that artists’ retreat near the King David Hotel, writing women into the script.” I actually sounded convincing.

  “Dammit, you’re lying.”

  “Yeah, but it’s our cover story for now.”

  Paul sighed. “Right, right, I’ll tell that to the crew. Michael Finley’ll fire somebody over this. Let’s keep it between us.”

  I plunged in. “Give it to me straight. What’s going on between Jack and Anita?”

  “You go figure it,” he sputtered. My heart sank. “She wants rehearsals, he wants to print every goddamn take. She decides to direct him, he wants to express something private. It never fucking stops.”

  “Is he still there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, at least we got one prima donna left. Tie a stone around his leg.”

  “I think you better get over here.” He sounded scared. “You’re her friend.”

  “I can’t just take off, Paul.” Rosemary stared at me. I didn’t belong in Israel. But this was the second cry for help I’d had in twenty-four hours. It wasn’t a good sign. The people who really make movies figure my job is simply—sign their checks and stay away.

  “My job isn’t psychological,” he said, “but they’re tearing each other apart.”

  I chewed three antacid pills after he hung up. I had to do something. Rosemary swiveled around to the filing cabinets and tossed my passport to me. “Expired three months ago.”

  “If I go and Michael finds out—” I shivered, running my finger down the list of incoming calls. Paul’s message was clear: my job was at stake. I had to sneak over to Israel.

  Rosemary looked rapturously at the ceiling. “I can’t believe you’ll be in the Holy Land, in that weather and looking into Jack Hanscomb’s blue eyes. It sounds fabulous.”

  I shook my head grimly. “I hope I don’t have to go. But you better cancel my appointments for the next two days just in case. Say I’m headed home to Philadelphia for my parents’ anniversary.”

  I pulled the top off a can of V-8 juice, gulping it without a glass. I had a million things on my mind besides Anita. Now I had to trot down the corridor and welcome my new California colleague.

  “Who’s Vicky meeting with?” I asked Rosemary. Everybody knew everything in the office.

  “That Japanese director you been courting.”

  I had a streak of anger. “I have to nail him down. He’s writing a treatment on spec for a kid’s karate movie.”

  “You report to her?” Rosemary stood, stretching the fingers of both hands into the tight front pockets of her dungarees.

  “No, and I never will. Got any more gum?” She unwrapped a fresh piece and tossed it at me as I galloped by her desk. A minute later I peeked into the other corner office, decorated in ivory and bright silks like a California Taj Mahal for visiting west coast sultans.

  Vicky was posed behind a carved ivory desk, a telephone at her neck under her cascading blond-streaked hair. “Come in, come in,” she mouthed. A piece of her hair fell over one eye, Veronica Lake style. She looked like a clean-cut Miss America, her large breasts pointed under a beige silk dress, snapping intelligent green eyes, and a glowing red lipstick smile. It was daunting to see a twenty-five-year-old girl in this setting.

  I sat down heavily in an ivory throne chair while she whispered into the phone. “Honey, I love it, let’s take a meeting, let’s make a movie.” She sounded like a Hollywood starlet but I knew she’d been an honor student at Princeton who directed the senior play.

  I sneaked a look at my wristwatch. I’m not used to being kept waiting. She gurgled, “Kisses, kisses,” and smooched loud before she hung up. She walked around the desk on glamorous high heels and shook my hand hard. I stood up; I was about two inches taller.

  “I hear great things about you,” I said. “People tell me we both love good movies.”

  She had a sharp direct stare. “Not like some people we work for,” she snickered, bonding by remarking on our boss Michael Finley, who had the odd reputation for hating movies.

  “How’s Jack?” She beamed, reaching over to dial the phone again.

  I sat forward. “Wonderful. He’s really working this time. He interviewed his Jewish grandfather and lived in a Brooklyn Hasidic monastery for three weeks and took off thirty pounds.” I grinned. “Instead of sexing it up, he’s acting.”

  “He’s admitting he’s half Jewish these days?” she asked aggressively. “His first press agent said he was Irish.” She spoke into her phone, asking for Arnie Berger, a big local agent.

  I had to get her off the phone. I smiled. “Part Jews can be the worst anti-Semites. Maybe this movie will save his soul.”

  “I hear Anita’s three days behind schedule.” She raised her voice like a cheerleader.

  “No, she’s doing great, only—”

  “Only what?”

  “Well, you know Michael Finley. All he cares about is my low budget. He won’t do creative thinking with me to make the movie better.”

  I was planting information with her. Vicky Corona might be my way to get around Michael Finley if he started playing rough about my problems on the set. Vicky’s mentor was Michael’s boss and the person Michael would consult before he took the picture away and fired me.

  She turned her back suddenly. I felt something coming. “I told Michael I can supervise your film.” She whirled around. “But I decided there’s not enough power in just running New York.” She slammed down the telephone.

  My eyes bugged out at her opening punch. She was facing me from a foot away.

  “I do have a great job,” I said evenly. “Sorry you’re not happy with yours.”

  “I made a fabulous deal with the studio.” She sat down, crossing her legs like a 1940s fashion model. “I’ll be here one week a month meeting with New York talent. There’s a lot more to be done here, a lot more.”

  I didn’t believe her; she was saying she would be supervising me. The interoffice phone rang, and Vicky grabbed for it. She looked pissed and shoved it across the gleaming white desk. “Polanski for you.”

  “Hello?”

  “It’s just me,” Rosemary said on the line.

  “Roman darling, how are you?” I sounded sarcastic.

  Vicky was combing the waving yellow hair that covered her eye.

  “Just repeat what I say,” Rosemary chortled. “She’ll blow a gasket.” She paused. “No, I can’t fly to Paris.”

  “No, I can’t fly to Paris.”

  Vicky strummed the teeth of her larg
e tortoiseshell comb.

  “Of course I’d love to see you,” Rosemary was dictating.

  I repeated the line.

  “I’ll get back to you and I love you,” she said. “Say it.”

  “I’ll get back to you—”

  “And?”

  “I love you.” I giggled and hung up.

  “Roman’s a big fan of mine,” Vicky shot at me.

  I stood, trying to stop laughing.

  “You need west coast supervision. I know how to handle Jack Hanscomb.”

  The west coast executives were going to try to gang up on me. I had to get to Israel and mend fences between Jack and Anita, or else.

  “I’d love your input on my film,” I said firmly.

  “But I hear your friend Anita can’t control the set. Jack Hanscomb won’t let her direct him.”

  Gossip fueled the business. There were no secrets.

  “Oh, they’re great together.” I spread my hands. “The real story is how the difference between Jack and Anita will spark the screen.”

  “So what are the differences?” She sounded triumphant.

  “He’s Mr. Macho-gorgeous star,” I said, “and she’s the intellectual hustler with the power complex who shops at Bendel’s.”

  “Sounds like a nightmare.”

  “They’re cooking. He told me he’s got a major crush on her.” I was praying she’d repeat my airbrushed version to her mentor.

  She looked cynical. “You’re lucky you’re back here in New York. With your lack of experience they’d eat you alive in Hollywood.”

  “Somebody take a bite out of you?” I asked sympathetically.

  “They wouldn’t dare.” She smiled.

  “Too tough.” I smiled back. “How long you been away from New York?”

  “I grew up here.”

  “I know the city like the palm of my hand.” I held up my hand to her.

  She put on that taunting, glowing smile again. “I hear Michael Finley hired you just to nail down Anita’s next property.”

  “He got it, didn’t he? Look, play your cards right and I’ll set up a meeting for you with Anita sometime.” Then I was out the door. I’m fast on my feet when I have to be. “I got to meet some local movie talent.”

  I heard her snickering from the doorway. “Send them out to Hollywood.”

  “Over my dead body,” I muttered to myself. I was waving at Rosemary who was down the corridor giving me a thumbs-up sign. I ran into her office. She was jumping up and down, laughing.

  I pounded her desk with relief. “Polanski, great going.”

  “My finest hour,” she said, settling back in her typing chair.

  “You deserve a raise.”

  “I’ll draft you a memo for personnel,” she said. “Hey, I canceled your lunch date. We’ll hotfoot it over to the passport office.”

  “Give me five minutes.” Inside my office Rosemary had closed the blinds. The wallpaper glowed with diffused light. I curled up in my corner of the couch, sitting on my stockinged feet.

  I had to get over to Israel. My neck tensed; I hate sleeping cooped up on airplanes. But if Vicky’d heard about Anita and Jack fighting, the problem was getting out of hand. I hoped Anita hadn’t deserted the set to intimidate Jack into cooperating. I am one of the few people in the entire world who can handle her tantrums.

  I snuggled into the rounded corner of my couch near the flashing phones. It calmed me down to look at my favorite photograph on my wall of Jimmy Dean’s innocent inward-looking face posed against the barns and fields of his hometown. No matter what happened to him in Hollywood, that face still looked like Indiana farm country.

  Rosemary thrust a pile of papers at me inside a wire basket. “You’re pressed for time,” she told me. “Sign the requisitions for payroll checks first.” Then she ran back to her phones. I quickly dialed Tel Aviv and made a Red Cross nurse promise to send a helicopter to the island. I wanted Anita found fast.

  I signed another form for a check to Jack’s business manager for $60,000. I was paying him nearly $20,000 for each minute of final screen time. Three million for the whole picture. I flushed, remembering his cocky laugh last night.

  I heard a commotion in the outer office. Rosemary appeared in the doorway holding a huge paper cone of flowers. “For you,” she announced, handing me a small card from Barry.

  “Breaking radio silence, I’ll pick you up at seven. Sorry about last night.”

  I sighed and got a small glow. What a pill he was.

  “Who’s the john?” Rosemary asked.

  “Don’t talk like that.”

  The private line blinked. Rosemary announced my boss from Los Angeles. I bounced back to the couch and grabbed the phone.

  “How are you?” I asked exuberantly.

  I knew what was coming. “Perfect, I’m perfect,” Michael Finley yelled, “much better than anybody who didn’t run six miles this morning.”

  I pictured the lush Art Deco office in Burbank on the flat sunstruck movie lot with strolling actors, fancy German cars, and the fake New York streetfront.

  “How’s business?” he asked meaningfully.

  “The movie’s rolling,” I shouted back.

  He laughed harshly. Something was up. Something bad. “I’m trying to get a hold of Paul Riley,” Michael said casually. “I need him to budget out a Clint Eastwood script.”

  “Fine, but he’s wandering the desert with a Polaroid looking for the master shot of the Sermon on the Mount.”

  “Tell him to give me a call.”

  “Sure will,” I lied.

  “He happy with Jack?”

  “Ecstatic.”

  “And Anita?”

  “He thinks she’s going to get nominated and come in two weeks under schedule.”

  He paused. “I need you to see some play in the Village, a midnight revue from England, homosexual.”

  I was panicky. He had changed the subject too fast. He was planning something.

  “Somebody big interested?” I asked blithely.

  “Just judge the material,” he snarled. Michael Finley hated homosexuals. This meant that someone bankable wanted to get studio money to buy it.

  “You flying in?” I asked brightly.

  “I’ll be in New York in a few days. I’m stuck here for now. Oh, and let’s sit down and look at all of Anita’s dailies when I arrive.”

  I gripped the phone. “But you’ve already seen them and an assembly.”

  “Yeah,” and he laughed. I didn’t like the new menace in his voice. “Get a dozen Zabar’s water bagels to my hotel and make sure they got a toaster in my suite.”

  He was the studio president and he liked the Carlyle’s rough towels and glitzy suites but he and his wife believed the bagels were stale.

  “Bagels for Michael,” I passed down the order to Rosemary, “next week at the hotel.”

  Then I heard a crackle over the phone like a loudspeaker in the background. It sounded to me like he was in an airport about to get on a plane. “Where are you?” I asked.

  “In the office,” he snapped. “Get it? Hang on.”

  I got it. Michael Finley was on the warpath. Michael Finley was tough. He was a legend in Hollywood, hanging in year after year despite rumors he was about to be fired. The studio refused to give him an employment contract for more than one year at a time and he was up for contract renewal this month. He was capable of doing anything to me to try and impress them.

  Ambition kept Michael working. His father wrote jokes and sold instant coffee door to door. When his dad drove Michael to Beverly Hills High in their old Chevy, Michael hid on the seat and swore he’d someday drive a Rolls. His negative personality kept him working too. As head of production, he never made a movie because he liked it; he refused to consider a film unless it was the sequel to a smash hit or a vehicle for a star.

  “Why are you flying in next week?” I raised my voice over the sound of a departing airplane motor.

  “The awards di
nner,” he said smugly.

  He was getting a statue for being the humanitarian of the year at a fancy black-tie dinner-dance at the Waldorf.

  “What else?”

  “Problems.” The airplane faded. I steeled myself. It was a sneak attack. I bet he was on his way here to wrestle the movie away from me. It was ironic, since he’d always hated it. “How’s your business?” he asked before he hung up.

  “Smooth.”

  Rosemary handed me my heavy raccoon coat. “You didn’t tell him about Anita?”

  “If I show him my throat, he bites it,” I said. “Much worse than that, he didn’t mention problems with Anita.”

  I was dialing his office in Burbank.

  “He doesn’t know,” Rosemary said comfortingly.

  “My gut reaction is that he knows, and unfortunately my instinct is rarely wrong.”

  Michael’s secretary answered crisply.

  “Hi, just confirming the meeting tomorrow with Arnie Berger,” I said blithely. I knew if Michael Finley was coming, he’d be sure to meet with the big New York agents.

  “That’s not until the day after,” she said, before I signed off.

  My heart hammered. I tucked my blouse into my pants. He was coming, just as I suspected. How in the world was I going to sneak off overseas?

  Rosemary took a look at my face. “It’ll be sunny and warm in Israel, right? Let’s walk over now and fix your passport.”

  Out on the street, office workers were stepping out of lunch restaurants. Our breaths made steam. I bumped shoulders with strangers. I never understand why the midday ritual is to crowd together at hectic tables. I’d rather eat at my familiar desk. Over the traffic noises I heard a saxophone playing an up-tempo “We Shall Overcome.”

  “It’s the Martin Luther King parade.” I walked faster.

  At Fifth Avenue a small crowd was strung out along the icy curb. I was watching an elderly black man with a bare grizzled head walking slowly down the middle of the street. He carried a small scarlet cloth banner with gold letters: “Martin Luther King, Jr. 1929–1968.” He wore a black armband and a black necktie and a topcoat.

  My mind was blank. Except for a picture of Michael Finley reading scripts on his plane.

  Rosemary watched the old man strut past us. “You think Vicky found out about me from somebody else?”