The film’s humor is very dark. Dagmar watches with interest, laughing at the amusing bits, scrolling her handheld in the air to make notes to herself. Then she wants to see the various alternate stories, and Clarence is happy to oblige.
The branching stories are a revelation, because they don’t branch. No matter which option we pick, the reel ends up in the same place as if we’d picked the other plotline. There are never more than two possible scenes. The audience has the illusion that it has a lot more choices than in fact it has.
“That’s a political comment by the director, Činčera,” Clarence says. “It’s about the elections under Communism. However you vote, you end up in the same place.”
“In a building that’s burning down,” Dagmar says. Her look is thoughtful.
We thank Clarence, and he gives us paper sacks of popcorn to take home.
“After your movie comes out,” he tells Dagmar, “we could have a panel discussion here. Get you and Sean and some other people on stage, to talk about your project.”
Dagmar considers this. “With alternate reality games,” she says, “we don’t talk about how we do what we do. We try to preserve the mystery.”
“Movies are different,” Clarence says.
“Maybe so,” Dagmar says. “I’ll think about it.” But I see her face close down, like shutters falling across a window, and I know she’ll never do it.
We step out onto Hollywood Boulevard. The street is shabby and tragic in the daytime, full of hucksters and tourists and cheap souvenir shops, but at night it retains at least a little bit of magic, of neon and fantasy. Cars pass by on hissing tires. Through the buildings we can see fragments of the Hollywood sign.
“Care to go for a drink or coffee or something?” I ask.
“Hey!” someone says. “Hey!” I look up and see a broad grin, cargo shorts, a baseball cap, and a cup from Starbucks.
“Where’s your luggage, man?” the guy asks.
“Heh heh.” I wave affably. “Nice.”
“Where’s your luggage?” he shouts, as if I didn’t hear it the first time. And then he’s off, swigging from his double mocha Frappuccino, or whatever the hell. Congratulating himself on his diamond-edged wit.
Dagmar looks after him with irritation. “Your loyal public?” she says.
“Yep.”
No one ever planned for Brent Schuyler, my character on Family Tree, to have a catchphrase. “Whatever lifts your luggage” was just one line among many, but when I first said it, the studio audience exploded in mirth. And then they laughed again when I used it again two weeks later. And the week after that. And after that, they laughed because they remembered they’d laughed before.
“Whatever lifts your luggage.” I never understood why that sent half of America rolling on the floor with laughter.
Though, as catchphrases go, it’s fairly benign. I’d much rather have perfect strangers ask me about my luggage than be Jaleel White watching someone do the Urkel Dance for the ten thousandth time, or Henry Winkler sitting in a restaurant while some subnormal cretin bellows “Ayyyyy” in his ear, or Bill Mumy smiling with resigned politeness when someone yells “Danger, Will Robinson!”
“So,” I say. “Coffee?”
“It’s late,” she says, and then hesitates. “Do you have a place in mind?”
I do.
INT. UNTERSEEBAR—NIGHT
Ten minutes later we’re at a submarine-themed brewpub, with portholes and periscopes and heavy brass diving helmets propped on shelves. Though I’d expect some kind of Teutonic march, it’s Jimmy Buffett I hear on the bar speakers. I order something called a Sonar Side Scan Ale. Dagmar has tonic without the gin. The waiter brings a bowl of nuts with our drinks.
I sip my drink and make a face. The brewmaster made up for the poor quality of his hops by throwing them in by the fistful, and the result is a bitter nastiness that’s a waste of everyone’s time.
Dagmar looks at me. “Not so good?”
“Maybe next I’ll try the lager.” I pop some peanuts to clear my palate. “Why aren’t you going to do the talk at Clarence’s theater?” I ask.
She gives me a startled look. “How do you know I won’t?”
“It was obvious.”
She glances away, frowning, then decides to answer.
“Because,” she says, “the questions might not all be about the movie.”
“Ah.” I can see where she’d be reluctant to talk about how so many people around her ended up dead.
“A friend of mine told me that I should be careful around you,” I say. “He said you’d blow up my car.”
She turns away again. Some internal process tugs on her facial muscles. “Not funny,” she says.
I realize I shouldn’t have said that. Contracts, I remind myself, haven’t been signed yet.
I take a swig of over-hopped ale. “Can you tell me about the movie?” I ask.
She toys with her napkin, which has a periscope’s-eye view of a sinking ship. “You haven’t signed the nondisclosure agreement,” she says.
“I have. It’s with Cleve. I assume he’ll send it to you tomorrow.”
The nondisclosure agreement is a piece of weirdness. I’m not allowed to talk about the film to any outsiders, not without permission, for any reason. Usually producers are all too happy to let people talk about their films, except maybe for plot secrets. But apparently the plots and inner workings of ARGs are all secret, and we are all bound to this tradition imported from another art form.
Dagmar comes to a decision, and shrugs.
“Okay,” she says. “Have you seen E.T.?”
“Sure.”
“We’re sort of doing E.T. Except that E.T. doesn’t go home at the end. Which is why we get to do sequels.”
I consider this. “And I’m E.T.?”
“Sort of, yeah.”
“I’m an alien.”
It’s not like I’m the most human-looking human on the planet, so this is not unreasonable.
“No, you’re not an actual alien.”
“I’m an angel.”
“Not a real angel.” And then, as I’m about to ask another question, she raises a hand. “It’s complicated. You’ll see the script.”
“When?”
“You’ve signed the NDA, so I’ll send the script to you as soon as Cleve faxes the agreement to me.” She hesitates. “Of course the script isn’t a hundred percent finished.”
“It never is.”
“And there are alternate plotlines, so it may be a little confusing to read.”
“I’ll manage.”
Her anxiety over the script is a little touching, and probably misplaced. It’s not as if my opinion of the writing is going to matter in the least. My job is just to speak the words, even if they stink.
I sip my vile beer. The drink catches her attention, and her gaze follows the glass as I return it to the table. She frowns, and is about to speak when klaxons sound over the bar speakers. There is a blast of air from the ballast tanks and a sound of rushing water. I presume we are now submerged.
“Are you going to structure the story like Man in His House?” I ask. “Every branch leads only to one place?”
Dagmar shakes her head. “No, I can’t. The original audience for that film would see it once, so it wouldn’t be obvious to them that the choices were so limited. Escape to Earth is more transparent—the audience will be able to see all the alternate scenes whenever they want, so long as they have a paid account. Too limited a choice will disappoint them, so we’ll need more scenes.”
“Escape to Earth?”
She smiles. “There’s your title. Make of it whatever you will.”
I consider Escape to Earth. “It’s a good title,” I say, and take another sip of beer. Dagmar looks at my glass again, and frowns.
“I did some research about you,” she says.
“Yes?”
Dagmar looks pointedly at my glass, then back at me. “Aren’t you supposed to be a re
covering alcoholic?”
I laugh. “I’m not an alcoholic,” I say. “I just play one at AA meetings.”
Her eyes narrow. She isn’t sharing my amusement.
“Why are you drinking again?” she says.
“I never stopped.” Her look hardens. I sigh and begin the long, embarrassing explanation.
“It was a stupid scheme to reboot my career,” I admit.
I explain about my idea to crash my car and gain headlines, sympathy, and work.
“Plus,” I add, “you’ve never seen anything like a Hollywood AA meeting. Trust me—people go there to audition. There are big-name producers and directors and agents at the meetings trying to dry out, so the actors chase them down and pull out all the stops to describe their fall into depravity and their desperate pursuit of sobriety. All pretend alcoholics looking for work.”
Dagmar looks faintly aghast. “How did your scheme work?” she asks.
“I sacrificed my Mini Cooper for nothing. I didn’t get work until people had forgotten I’m supposed to be a drunk. The insurance money from the Mini went to pay lawyers and the clinic. And now I’m driving my mother’s car.”
The annoying thing is that the scheme has worked for other people. A well-timed arrest can boost someone’s career, if they’re properly contrite and stay out of trouble afterward. A second arrest, or a second stay in rehab, tends to make people suspicious.
Dagmar eats a cashew and frowns at me.
“I don’t want you drinking while you’re working for me.”
I’m so taken aback that it takes me a few seconds to respond. “I’m not a real alcoholic,” I point out.
“You’re a public alcoholic,” Dagmar says. “You pleaded guilty to drunken driving. It’s in the public record. You’ve been seen at AA meetings.”
I feel a flash of anger. “It’s all fake!”
“That doesn’t matter.” Dagmar jabs a finger into the surface of the table. “I’m not having my project derailed by speculation over your sobriety. This is a family-friendly film that I’m going to market all over the world, including places where alcohol is illegal—”
I begin to sputter. “I’m going to be held hostage by the bigotry of a clutch of imams?”
“You’re going to be held hostage by me,” Dagmar says. She points at my Side Scan Ale. “That’s your last drink as long as you’re under contract to me.”
“There’s no way you can enforce that!” I say.
Her mouth presses into a grim line. “I can if it’s in the contract. And it will be in the contract, along with a few other clauses guaranteeing good behavior.”
“Like what?” I say.
“No drugs. No criminal behavior. No sex scandals.”
I’m appalled. “What the fuck is a sex scandal in this day and age? Now I can’t even get laid?”
“Not with anyone who’s married,” Dagmar says. “Or underage. Or a prostitute.”
“A prostitute?” I’m sputtering again. “I’ve never paid for—”
I’m totally indignant. I’ve been with a lot of sex workers. And not once did I have to pay.
Of course, that was back when I was a star. I doubt I’d get any freebies now.
Dagmar raises a hand. “No kicking dogs, like Melody Chastain. No public masturbation—remember Pee-wee Herman.” She offers a cynical smile. “I’m sure I’ll think of a few more restrictions by tomorrow morning.”
I lean back in my chair, fold my arms, and give Dagmar a sullen glare. “I’m an actor,” I say. “Not a Mouseketeer. I’m not some kid. I don’t need protection from the wicked world.”
She shrugs. “I don’t give a damn about you. I wish you’d understand that.”
“Thanks a lot,” I mutter.
Her eyes flash. “What I care about is Roheen. He’s a role model and he stays pristine.”
I am without words. This kind of paternalism is from generations before my time, when studios tried to control the private lives of their actors. Disney, I guess, was the only studio that actually had any success, at least while Walt was still alive—after which the doors of Sleeping Beauty’s castle crashed down to admit a wave of hard-partying, drugging, snatch-flashing ingenues.
None of whom, apparently, I am to be allowed to play with.
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” I say. “This is…medieval.”
“Medieval would involve a chastity belt.”
“You can’t put a morals clause in the contract. It’s unenforceable.”
“You could take it to court,” Dagmar says, “but of course you’d have to take the position that you have an inalienable right to screw underage girls, which might not make that great an impression on the judge—not to mention the public.” She nods thoughtfully. “And of course you’d have to pay your attorney with something—your mother’s car, maybe?”
She nods. “You know, I’m thinking that it’s best not to sign the contract at all.”
I don’t give a damn about you. She was certainly intent on proving it.
She looks at me, and her gaze softens. “There’s still at least twenty million women in this country who aren’t married, aren’t under eighteen, and don’t turn tricks.” She waves a hand. “Be my guest.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m not normally a hard-ass,” she says. “But this project is too important for me to allow accidents.”
Something in her tone makes me look up.
“What is this project exactly?” I ask.
She grows grim again. “It’s my…damn…movie,” she says.
CHAPTER SIX
FROM: Parmita
SUBJECT: Your “Blog”
Sean, this is your mother. I am contacting you regarding the unjust attacks you have made on Babaji on your “blog.” You say that he is larcenous and that is not true. Babaji doesn’t care about money. Any money is used for the purposes of education and to help some of his elderly disciples who have no resources of their own. Babaji is God and God doesn’t need money! He would not hang on to money without a good reason!
You also say that Kadaitswami means “Master of the Marketplace,” and that is true, but you imply that this has to do with his love of money, and that is false. He was called Kadaitswami because he used to do his preaching in markets and bazaars. He preached to the poor and to the humble! This should not be a cause for mockery!
You are deliberately misunderstanding your phone call with Babaji. It was a great honor that he spoke with you at all. He was only interested in your spiritual well-being, and you chose to mock him. No wonder he hung up. You are very ill-bred. You have completely wasted God’s time.
As for the rest of your essay, I can only shake my head in disbelief. Any money that I spent was only to give you a good home. If I also took advantage of the opportunity to advance my own development, that is my responsibility as a spiritual being on this plane of existence. We should all evolve toward God. That is our duty to ourselves.
If I gave Babaji money, it is so that I can go to Heaven! I do not understand why a son should be angry that his mother is going to Heaven.
And I don’t see what my car has to do with any of this. I bought a good safe car that would hold the entire family. Now you use this to make fun of me.
But I don’t care what you say about me. Babaji says that we must all “suffer the slings and arrows.”
I do care, though, that you are using your “blog” to slander Babaji. I expect that you will print a retraction now that you know the truth.
Om Shiva,
Your mother (Parmita Subrahmanya)
FROM: Sean Makin
SUBJECT: Re: Your “Blog”
Your name is Parmita now? I guess it beats Stephanie.
I will continue to say anything I like about Babaji, and to waste as much of his time as I like, so long as he continues to hang on to my stolen money. If God doesn’t like it, he can send me a check.
I was really interested to know that it’s
possible to buy your way into Heaven. If that’s true, I guess I’m going there, because the trip was paid for with my money.
You and Dad had $25 million legally to buy your way into whatever afterlife appealed to you. You needed my nest egg too?
Is Heaven like a country club or something? You have to be rich to get in? If there aren’t any poor people there, who cuts the rich folks’ lawns?
But seriously—this is what it takes to get you to contact me? It’s been over ten years since I’ve heard from you. Not even a birthday card. I was beginning to suspect you don’t give a shit.
Babaji can kiss my ass,
Your son (Sean Makin, in case you’ve forgotten my name)
FROM: Parmita
SUBJECT: Re: Re: Your “Blog”
It’s not true that I don’t care about you. I care about everybody. But I also care about God, and God comes first!
Your continual harping on the money indicates how unevolved your soul has become. You should consider eternal things only. Then you will become more perfect and closer to Babaji. If you don’t do this, you could be caught on the Wheel for all eternity.
You continue to slander Babaji! This makes me very angry with you, but it doesn’t mean that I’m not concerned for you. “Money is not all that matters.” If you come to Andhra Pradesh we can discuss this.
Om Shiva
Your mother
FROM: Sean Makin
SUBJECT: Re: Re: Re: Your “Blog”
Did you know that “Om Shiva” is an anagram of “Mavis Ho”? Do you suppose there is some spiritual significance to this?
I’m a little too busy right now to come to Andhra Pradesh. Why don’t you come to California? So many of your old friends would like to see you.
Mavis Ho,
Your son
FROM: Parmita
SUBJECT: Re: Re: Re: Re: Your “Blog”
There is spiritual significance to everything, even to this Mavis Ho, who I suppose is a pop star or something. Here in the ashram we are a little “behind the times” as far as entertainment goes.
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