“I’m not going to get into it.”
“But if I’ve done something wrong . . .”
“This conversation’s closed. Good-bye.”
And I headed toward the door. But Fleck’s voice stopped me.
“David . . .”
“What?” I said, turning around. Fleck was now looking straight at me, a big mischievous smile on his face, holding a copy of my script in his right hand.
“Gotcha,” he said. And when I didn’t immediately break into a hundred-watt hey, what a great joke grin, he said: “Hope you’re not too pissed at me now.”
“After waiting here for a week, Mr. Fleck . . .”
He cut me off.
“You’re right, you’re right—and for that, my apologies. But hey, what’s a little Pinteresque banter between colleagues.”
“We’re colleagues?”
“I certainly hope so. Because, speaking personally, I want to make this script.”
“You do?” I said, trying to sound neutral.
“I think what you’ve done in the new rewrite is quite remarkable. Because it’s like a deconstructed caper movie with a really rigorous political underpinning. And what you’re really getting at is the malaise inherent in laissez-faire consumerism, an ennui that has become such a defining mainstay of contemporary American life.”
This was news to me—but if there was one thing I’d learned about the writing trade it was this: when a director started enthusiastically telling you what your movie was about, it was always best to nod your head in sage agreement . . . even if you thought he was talking utter shit.
“Of course,” I said, “first and foremost, it is a genre movie . . .”
“Precisely,” Fleck said, motioning for me to sit back down in the Eames chair. “But it subverts the genre—the way Jean-Pierre Melville redefined the existential hit man legend in Le Samourai.”
The existential hit man legend? Sure.
“At heart, though,” I said, “it is about a couple of guys in Chicago trying to rob a bank.”
“And do I know how to film that bank job.”
For the next half an hour, he gave me a shot-by-shot storyboard of how he’d film the bank job (using Steadicam—and grainy color film stock “to get a real sense of guerrilla filmmaking”). Then he talked casting ideas.
“I only want unknowns. And for the leads, I’m really considering these two amazing actors I saw last year at the Berliner Ensemble . . .”
“How’s their English?” I asked.
“We can work on that,” he said.
I could have mentioned the slight credibility problem of having heavily accented Germans playing a pair of grizzled Vietnam vets, but I held my tongue. In the course of his epic monologue, he mentioned that he was thinking of budgeting the film at around $40 million—an absurd sum for an alleged piece of guerrilla filmmaking. But who was I to question the way he wanted to squander his money? And I remembered what Alison told me before I came out here.
“I know I can fuck him out of a lot of money. I’m going pay-or-play on this one, Dave. A cool million. And I promise you he’ll pay it. Because even though we both know that registering your script under his name was a form of sweet talk, he still won’t want that made public. And without us even asking, he’ll pay big-time to keep it quiet.”
I was actually succumbing a bit to his zealousness, the way he made me feel as if I had written not a mere frolic but one of the great defining human documents of the age. Martha was right—when Fleck wanted something, he pursued it with complete fervor. But I also remembered what she said about how he lost interest once he had gotten what he wanted. And I was still a little bemused by the way he’d tried to unsettle me at the beginning of our conversation—though, to his credit, he did stop halfway through his oration to apologize for “pulling my chain.”
“I’m afraid it’s a bad habit of mine,” he said. “When I meet someone for the first time, I like to wrong-foot them a bit . . . just to see how they’ll react.”
“And did I pass the test?”
“An A plus. Martha told me you were a class act—and she knows her writers. Thanks again for spending so much time with her over the last couple of days. She’s such a big fan of yours, and I know she really enjoyed the opportunity to talk with you at such great length.”
Not to mention playing a kissing game with me involving the poems of Emily Dickinson. But Fleck’s face betrayed no knowledge of such events. Anyway (I told myself), they were unofficially separated. He probably had mistresses in each of his many ports of call. So what if he found out I’d been necking with his wife? He loved my screenplay. If he imposed his goofy ideas on it, I’d pull my name from the credits . . . after cashing his check.
But before we could speak any further on the subject of his wife, I decided to change the subject.
“I meant to thank you for introducing me to Pasolini’s Salo,” I said. “It might be the worst first date movie of all time, but it’s still quite a film, and one you certainly don’t get out of your brain easily.”
“For me it is, without question, the greatest film made since the War. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“That’s a big statement . . .”
“And I’ll tell you why it deserves that accolade. Because it deals with the foremost issue of the last century . . . which is the need to exercise absolute control over others.”
“I don’t think that was just a twentieth-century preoccupation.”
“True—but in the last century, we made a great leap forward in terms of human control . . . we harnessed the power of technology to establish total hegemony over others. The German concentration camps, for example, were the first supreme example of hyper-technological death—for they created an exceedingly efficient apparatus for human extermination. The atomic bomb was also a triumph of human control, not only for its capability for detached mass destruction, but also as a political tool. Face facts, we all bought into the Cold War apparatus of the secret security state, thanks to the threat of the bomb . . . and it allowed governments on both sides of the ideological divide the perfect means for keeping the hoi polloi constrained, while also giving them the raison d’être for setting up a vast intelligence network to stifle dissent. Now, of course, we have the vast information capabilities necessary for even greater control over individuals. Just as Western societies use consumerism—and the endless cycle of acquisitiveness—as a means by which to keep the populace preoccupied, subdued.”
“But what does this have to do with Salo?”
“It’s simple, really—what Pasolini was showing was fascism in its purest pretechnological form: the belief that you have the right, the privilege, to exert complete control over another being to the point of completely denying them their dignity and essential human rights; to strip them of all individuality and treat them like functional objects, to be discarded when they have outserved their capability. Now the demented aristocrats in the film have been replaced by larger powers: governments, corporations, data banks. But we still live in a world where the impulse to dominate another individual is one of the foremost of all human motivations. We all want to impose our own worldview on everyone else, don’t we?”
“I suppose so . . . but how does this whole, uh, thesis, relate to my . . . our . . . heist movie?”
He looked at me and smiled the smile of someone about to impart a fantastic, highly original suggestion—and who had been just waiting for the right moment to spring it on me.
“Say . . . and this is just a suggestion, but one I want you to consider very seriously . . . say our two Vietnam vets manage to pull off an initial bank job but then make the mistake of getting a little ambitious and decide to go after the loot of an ultra-secretive billionaire.”
Takes one to know one, I thought. But Fleck didn’t flash me a grin of self-irony. He just kept talking.
“Anyway,” Fleck continued, “let’s say that this billionaire lives in a hilltop fortress in northern California . .
. with one of the largest private art collections in the States, which our guys have decided to rip off. But when they finally break into this guy’s citadel, they are immediately taken prisoner by his platoon of armed guards. And they discover he’s set up a libertine society for himself and a bunch of his chums—with his very own sex slaves, both male and female. As soon as they’re captured, our two guys are enslaved themselves . . . but immediately start plotting a way of liberating themselves and everyone else from this draconian regime.”
He paused and smiled at me. “What do you think?” he asked.
Careful now. You don’t want him to see you wince.
“Well,” I said, “it sounds a bit like Die Hard meets the Marquis de Sade. A question, however: do our two guys get out alive?”
“Does that matter?”
“Of course it does . . . if you want this to be a somewhat commercial movie. I mean, given that you’re thinking about spending forty million dollars, you are going to want to aim it at the multiplex crowd. Which means that they are going to have to have someone to root for. Which means that one of the vets walks out of there after blowing all the bad guys away . . .”
“And what happens to his friend?” he asked, his voice suddenly terse.
“You let him die heroically . . . and preferably at the hands of the demented billionaire. Which, of course, gives the Bruce Willis character an even bigger personal grudge against his captor. At the end of the movie, after blowing away all his minions, Willis and the billionaire finally square off. Naturally, Willis has to walk away from the ruins of the mansion with some babe on his arm . . . preferably one of the sex slaves whom he’s emancipated. Roll credits. And you’ve got a guaranteed twenty-million-dollar opening weekend.”
Long pause. Philip Fleck pursed his lips.
“I don’t like that,” he said. “I don’t like that at all.”
“Personally speaking, nor do I. But that’s not the point.”
“What is the point then?”
“If you want to turn this heist movie into a ‘two guys get captured by a rich loony’ movie, and you also want the film to make money, then you are going to have to play by certain mainstream Hollywood rules.”
“But this is not the movie you wrote,” he said, a hint of annoyance in his voice.
“Tell me about it,” I said. “As you well know, the film I wrote—and rewrote—is a dark, funny, slightly dangerous Robert Altman–style comedy; the sort of thing that would be a perfect vehicle for Elliott Gould and Donald Sutherland as the old Vietnam vets. What you’re proposing . . .”
“What I’m proposing is also dark and dangerous,” he said. “I don’t want to make some generic piece of shit. I want to reinterpret Salo in a twenty-first-century American context.”
“When you say ‘reinterpret’ . . . ?” I said.
“I mean lure the audience into believing that they are watching a conventional heist movie, and then bam! throw them into the blackest heart of darkness imaginable.”
I studied Fleck with care. No, he wasn’t being ironic or wry or even grimly fanciful. The guy was absolutely serious.
“Define what you mean by ‘heart of darkness,’” I said.
He shrugged. “You saw Salo,” he said. “What I’d be aiming for is the same extreme cruelty . . . pushing the boundaries of taste and audience tolerance to the furthest extremes.”
“Like, say, the turd banquet . . . ?”
“Well, naturally, we wouldn’t want to directly ape Pasolini . . .”
“Of course we wouldn’t . . .”
“But I do think there should be some sort of terrible degradation involving fecal matter. Because there’s nothing more primal than shit, is there?”
“I’d certainly agree with that,” I said. I kept expecting him to say Gotcha! again, and give me a hard time about wrong-footing me for the second time. But he was deadly earnest. So I said, “But you do know that if, say, you actually show a guy taking a dump on the floor, you won’t just fail to get the movie passed by the ratings people . . . you might fail to get it released.”
“Oh, I’d get it released,” he said. True . . . because he could pay to get anything done. Just like he could also drop $40 million on another extremist vanity project. The guy could do whatever he wanted . . . because his money insulated him from the usual run-of-the-mill worries about returning a profit on a movie (let alone getting the damn movie widely seen).
“You know, however, that the sort of film you’re proposing will only play in Paris or maybe in some art house in Helsinki, where the suicide rate is high . . .”
Fleck tensed slightly. “That’s a joke, right?”
“Yeah. I was joking. All I’m saying is—”
“I know what you’re saying. And I am aware that what I am proposing is radical. But if someone like me—given the resources at my disposal—plays it safe, how will art ever progress? Face facts, it has always been the wealthy elite who have funded the avant-garde. I’m simply funding myself. And if the rest of the world chooses to revile what I’ve done, so be it. As long as it’s not ignored . . .”
“You mean, like your first movie?” I heard myself saying. Fleck tensed again, then glared at me in a way that made him seem simultaneously wounded and dangerous. Oops. I had just put my foot in it . . . big-time. So I quickly said, “Not, of course, that it deserved such treatment. And I doubt what you’re proposing now—with our script—would be ignored. You might have the Christian Coalition burning effigies of you, but I’m certain attention would be paid. In a major way.”
Now he was smiling again, and I was relieved. Then he hit a button on the table. Meg arrived within seconds. He asked for a bottle of champagne.
“I think we should toast our collaboration, David,” he said.
“Are we collaborating on this?”
“That’s what I’m assuming. I mean, you are interested in continuing to work on the project, aren’t you?”
“That depends . . .”
“On what?”
“The usual stuff: our mutual schedules, my other professional obligations, the contractual terms your people work out with my people. And then there’s the issue of money.”
“Money wouldn’t be an issue.”
“Money’s always an issue in the movie business.”
“It’s not with me. Name your price.”
“Sorry?”
“Name your price. Tell me how much you’d want to rewrite the script.”
“This is an area I never really dabble in. You’ll have to talk to my agent . . .”
“I’m going to say it again, David: Name your price.”
I took a deep, nervous breath. “You’re talking about one rewrite to your specifications?”
“Two drafts and a polish,” he said.
“Then you’re asking for a substantial commitment of time,” I said.
“And I’m sure you’ll charge accordingly.”
“And we’d be talking about your ‘Salo in Napa Valley’ scenario?”
A tight little smile. “I suppose one could refer to it as that,” he said. “So . . . the price, please.”
Without flinching, I said, “two-point-five million.”
He studied his fingernails. And said, “Sold.”
Now I did flinch. “You sure about that?”
“It’s a done deal. So, shall we get started?”
“Well . . . uh . . . I don’t usually start work until a contract is signed. And I’d have to talk things over with my agent.”
“What’s to talk about? You named a price. I’ve accepted it. Let’s go to work.”
“Now?”
“Yes—this instant.”
But an hour from now, I’m supposed to be aboard one of your private jets, heading west to see my daughter; a weekend together that I can’t (and won’t) miss.
“Well, I know my agent’s out of town right now . . .”
“But surely we can track her down somewhere. And if not, I’ll still arra
nge for half of the two-point-five million to be transferred to your bank account this afternoon.”
“That’s incredibly generous—and honorable—of you. But that’s not really the problem. The thing is, I’ve got an important family commitment back on the Coast.”
“Is it life or death?” he asked.
“No—but if I don’t show up, it’s going to really upset my daughter—and my ex-wife will use my no-show as a way to legally flay me.”
“Fuck her,” he said.
“It’s not that easy.”
“Yes, it is. Anyway, two-point-five million dollars will buy you a lot of legal assistance.”
“But there’s a child involved too.”
“She’ll live.”
Perhaps. But I might not be able to handle the guilt.
“Here’s what I propose,” I said. “Let me go to San Francisco now, and I can be back here first thing Monday morning.”
He started regarding his fingernails again. “I won’t be here,” he said.
“Well then, I could meet you wherever you are.”
“Next week’s impossible.”
“How about the week after?” I said, and suddenly regretted making that offer. Because I had violated rule number one of writing for the movies: I’d sounded far too eager . . . which, in turn, meant that I appeared to need the work or really want the money. Which was true—but in Hollywood (and especially around a tricky guy like Fleck), you had to behave as if you could live without the million-dollar deal. So much of the game was about striking an attitude of complete self-command and never admitting doubt or (horror of horrors) actually needing someone else. In this instance, I didn’t need this writing gig—and, in fact, had grave doubts about its creative legitimacy. But how could I resist the absurd paycheck . . . especially when I would also get Alison to structure the contract in such a way that I would have no problems with taking my damn name off the screenplay and could subsequently deny all knowledge of Fleck’s warped, fecal-obsessive tamperings with my original baby.
The thing was, Fleck himself now realized that he had me in a delightful conundrum: stay the weekend and get working on a $2.5 million writing contract. Or leave and . . .
The Douglas Kennedy Collection #2 Page 15
