The Neil Gaiman Reader

by Neil Gaiman

  “She put the fish back in the pool, and for a moment it was as if it didn’t want to leave her—it stayed by her, nuzzling her fingers. And then the first of the fireworks went off, and it swum away.

  “Her lipstick was red as red as red, and she left the shape of her lips on the fish’s back. —There. Do you see?”

  Princess, the white carp with the coral red mark on her back, flicked a fin and continued on her eternal series of thirty-second journeys around the pool. The red mark did look like a lip print.

  He sprinkled a handful of fish food on the water, and the three fish bobbed and gulped to the surface.

  I walked back in to my chalet, carrying my books on old illusions. The phone was ringing: it was someone from the studio. They wanted to talk about the treatment. A car would be there for me in thirty minutes.

  “Will Jacob be there?”

  But the line was already dead.

  THE MEETING WAS with the Australian Someone and his assistant, a bespectacled man in a suit. His was the first suit I’d seen so far, and his spectacles were a vivid blue. He seemed nervous.

  “Where are you staying?” asked the Someone. I told him.

  “Isn’t that where Belushi . . . ? ​”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  He nodded. “He wasn’t alone, when he died.”

  “No?”

  He rubbed one finger along the side of his pointy nose. “There were a couple of other people at the party. They were both directors, both as big as you could get at that point. You don’t need names. I found out about it when I was making the last Indiana Jones film.”

  An uneasy silence. We were at a huge round table, just the three of us, and we each had a copy of the treatment I had written in front of us. Finally I said:

  “What did you think of it?”

  They both nodded, more or less in unison.

  And then they tried, as hard as they could, to tell me they hated it while never saying anything that might conceivably upset me. It was a very odd conversation.

  “We have a problem with the third act,” they’d say, implying vaguely that the fault lay neither with me nor with the treatment, nor even with the third act, but with them.

  They wanted the people to be more sympathetic. They wanted sharp lights and shadows, not shades of gray. They wanted the heroine to be a hero. And I nodded and took notes.

  At the end of the meeting I shook hands with the Someone, and the assistant in the blue-rimmed spectacles took me off through the corridor maze to find the outside world and my car and my driver.

  As we walked, I asked if the studio had a picture anywhere of June Lincoln.

  “Who?” His name, it turned out, was Greg. He pulled out a small notebook and wrote something down in it with a pencil.

  “She was a silent screen star. Famous in 1926.”

  “Was she with the studio?”

  “I have no idea,” I admitted. “But she was famous. Even more famous than Marie Prevost.”

  “Who?”

  “ ‘A winner who became a doggie’s dinner.’ One of the biggest stars of the silent screen. Died in poverty when the talkies came in and was eaten by her dachshund. Nick Lowe wrote a song about her.”

  “Who?”

  “ ‘I knew the bride when she used to rock and roll.’ Anyway, June Lincoln. Can someone find me a photo?”

  He wrote something more down on his pad. Stared at it for a moment. Then wrote down something else. Then he nodded.

  We had reached the daylight, and my car was waiting.

  “By the way,” he said, “you should know that he’s full of shit.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Full of shit. It wasn’t Spielberg and Lucas who were with Belushi. It was Bette Midler and Linda Ronstadt. It was a coke orgy. Everybody knows that. He’s full of shit. And he was just a junior studio accountant for chrissakes on the Indiana Jones movie. Like it was his movie. Asshole.”

  We shook hands. I got in the car and went back to the hotel.

  THE TIME DIFFERENCE caught up with me that night, and I woke, utterly and irrevocably, at 4 A.M.

  I got up, peed, then I pulled on a pair of jeans (I sleep in a T-shirt) and walked outside.

  I wanted to see the stars, but the lights of the city were too bright, the air too dirty. The sky was a dirty, starless yellow, and I thought of all the constellations I could see from the English countryside, and I felt, for the first time, deeply, stupidly homesick.

  I missed the stars.

  I WANTED TO work on the short story or to get on with the film script. Instead, I worked on a second draft of the treatment.

  I took the number of Junior Mansons down to five from twelve and made it clearer from the start that one of them, who was now male, wasn’t a bad guy and the other four most definitely were.

  They sent over a copy of a film magazine. It had the smell of old pulp paper about it, and was stamped in purple with the studio name and with the word ARCHIVES underneath. The cover showed John Barrymore, on a boat.

  The article inside was about June Lincoln’s death. I found it hard to read and harder still to understand: it hinted at the forbidden vices that led to her death, that much I could tell, but it was as if it were hinting in a cipher to which modern readers lacked any key. Or perhaps, on reflection, the writer of her obituary knew nothing and was hinting into the void.

  More interesting—at any rate, more comprehensible—were the photos. A full-page, black-edged photo of a woman with huge eyes and a gentle smile, smoking a cigarette (the smoke was airbrushed in, to my way of thinking very clumsily: had people ever been taken in by such clumsy fakes?); another photo of her in a staged clinch with Douglas Fairbanks; a small photograph of her standing on the running board of a car, holding a couple of tiny dogs.

  She was, from the photographs, not a contemporary beauty. She lacked the transcendence of a Louise Brooks, the sex appeal of a Marilyn Monroe, the sluttish elegance of a Rita Hayworth. She was a twenties starlet as dull as any other twenties starlet. I saw no mystery in her huge eyes, her bobbed hair. She had perfectly made-up cupid’s bow lips. I had no idea what she would have looked like if she had been alive and around today.

  Still, she was real; she had lived. She had been worshipped and adored by the people in the movie palaces. She had kissed the fish, and walked in the grounds of my hotel seventy years before: no time in England, but an eternity in Hollywood.

  I WENT IN to talk about the treatment. None of the people I had spoken to before were there. Instead, I was shown in to see a very young man in a small office, who never smiled and who told me how much he loved the treatment and how pleased he was that the studio owned the property.

  He said he thought the character of Charles Manson was particularly cool, and that maybe—“once he was fully dimensionalized”—Manson could be the next Hannibal Lecter.

  “But. Um. Manson. He’s real. He’s in prison now. His people killed Sharon Tate.”

  “Sharon Tate?”

  “She was an actress. A film star. She was pregnant and they killed her. She was married to Polanski.”

  “Roman Polanski?”

  “The director. Yes.”

  He frowned. “But we’re putting together a deal with Polanski.”

  “That’s good. He’s a good director.”

  “Does he know about this?”

  “About what? The book? Our film? Sharon Tate’s death?”

  He shook his head: none of the above. “It’s a three-picture deal. Julia Roberts is semiattached to it. You say Polanski doesn’t know about this treatment?”

  “No, what I said was—”

  He checked his watch.

  “Where are you staying?” he asked. “Are we putting you up somewhere good?”

  “Yes, thank you,” I said. “I’m a couple of chalets away from the room in which Belushi died.”

  I expected another confidential couple of stars: to be told that John Belushi had kicked the bucket in comp
any with Julie Andrews and Miss Piggy the Muppet. I was wrong.

  “Belushi’s dead?” he said, his young brow furrowing. “Belushi’s not dead. We’re doing a picture with Belushi.”

  “This was the brother,” I told him. “The brother died, years ago.”

  He shrugged. “Sounds like a shithole,” he said. “Next time you come out, tell them you want to stay in the Bel Air. You want us to move you out there now?”

  “No, thank you,” I said. “I’m used to it where I am.”

  “What about the treatment?” I asked.

  “Leave it with us.”

  I FOUND MYSELF becoming fascinated by two old theatrical illusions I found in my books: “The Artist’s Dream” and “The Enchanted Casement.” They were metaphors for something, of that I was certain; but the story that ought to have accompanied them was not yet there. I’d write first sentences that did not make it to first paragraphs, first paragraphs that never made it to first pages. I’d write them on the computer, then exit without saving anything.

  I sat outside in the courtyard and stared at the two white carp and the one scarlet and white carp. They looked, I decided, like Escher drawings of fish, which surprised me, as it had never occurred to me there was anything even slightly realistic in Escher’s drawings.

  Pious Dundas was polishing the leaves of the plants. He had a bottle of polisher and a cloth.

  “Hi, Pious.”

  “Suh.”

  “Lovely day.”

  He nodded, and coughed, and banged his chest with his fist, and nodded some more.

  I left the fish, sat down on the bench.

  “Why haven’t they made you retire?” I asked. “Shouldn’t you have retired fifteen years ago?”

  He continued polishing. “Hell no, I’m a landmark. They can say that all the stars in the sky stayed here, but I tell folks what Cary Grant had for breakfast.”

  “Do you remember?”

  “Heck no. But they don’t know that.” He coughed again. “What you writing?”

  “Well, last week I wrote a treatment for this film. And then I wrote another treatment. And now I’m waiting for . . . something.”

  “So what are you writing?”

  “A story that won’t come right. It’s about a Victorian magic trick called ‘The Artist’s Dream.’ An artist comes onto the stage, carrying a big canvas, which he puts on an easel. It’s got a painting of a woman on it. And he looks at the painting and despairs of ever being a real painter. Then he sits down and goes to sleep, and the painting comes to life, steps down from the frame and tells him not to give up. To keep fighting. He’ll be a great painter one day. She climbs back into the frame. The lights dim. Then he wakes up, and it’s a painting again . . .”

  “​. . . ​AND THE other illusion,” I told the woman from the studio, who had made the mistake of feigning interest at the beginning of the meeting, “was called ‘The Enchanted Casement.’ A window hangs in the air and faces appear in it, but there’s no one around. I think I can get a strange sort of parallel between the enchanted casement and probably television: seems like a natural candidate, after all.”

  “I like Seinfeld,” she said. “You watch that show? It’s about nothing. I mean, they have whole episodes about nothing. And I liked Garry Shandling before he did the new show and got mean.”

  “The illusions,” I continued, “like all great illusions, make us question the nature of reality. But they also frame—pun, I suppose, intentionalish—the issue of what entertainment would turn into. Films before they had films, telly before there was ever TV.”

  She frowned. “Is this a movie?”

  “I hope not. It’s a short story, if I can get it to work.”

  “So let’s talk about the movie.” She flicked through a pile of notes. She was in her mid-twenties and looked both attractive and sterile. I wondered if she was one of the women who had been at the breakfast on my first day, a Deanna or a Tina.

  She looked puzzled at something and read: “I Knew the Bride When She Used to Rock and Roll?”

  “He wrote that down? That’s not this film.”

  She nodded. “Now, I have to say that some of your treatment is kind of . . . contentious. The Manson thing . . . well, we’re not sure it’s going to fly. Could we take him out?”

  “But that’s the whole point of the thing. I mean, the book is called Sons of Man; it’s about Manson’s children. If you take him out, you don’t have very much, do you? I mean, this is the book you bought.” I held it up for her to see: my talisman. “Throwing out Manson is like, I don’t know, it’s like ordering a pizza and then complaining when it arrives because it’s flat, round, and covered in tomato sauce and cheese.”

  She gave no indication of having heard anything I had said. She asked, “What do you think about When We Were Badd as a title? Two d’s in Badd.”

  “I don’t know. For this?”

  “We don’t want people to think that it’s religious. Sons of Man. It sounds like it might be kind of anti-Christian.”

  “Well, I do kind of imply that the power that possesses the Manson children is in some way a kind of demonic power.”

  “You do?”

  “In the book.”

  She managed a pitying look, of the kind that only people who know that books are, at best, properties on which films can be loosely based, can bestow on the rest of us.

  “Well, I don’t think the studio would see that as appropriate,” she said.

  “Do you know who June Lincoln was?” I asked her.

  She shook her head.

  “David Gambol? Jacob Klein?”

  She shook her head once more, a little impatiently. Then she gave me a typed list of things she felt needed fixing, which amounted to pretty much everything. The list was TO: me and a number of other people, whose names I didn’t recognize, and it was FROM: Donna Leary.

  I said Thank you, Donna, and went back to the hotel.

  I WAS GLOOMY for a day. And then I thought of a way to redo the treatment that would, I thought, deal with all of Donna’s list of complaints.

  Another day’s thinking, a few days’ writing, and I faxed the third treatment off to the studio.

  Pious Dundas brought his scrapbook over for me to look at, once he felt certain that I was genuinely interested in June Lincoln—named, I discovered, after the month and the president, born Ruth Baumgarten in 1903. It was a leatherbound old scrapbook, the size and weight of a family Bible.

  She was twenty-four when she died.

  “I wish you could’ve seen her,” said Pious Dundas. “I wish some of her films had survived. She was so big. She was the greatest star of all of them.”

  “Was she a good actress?”

  He shook his head decisively. “Nope.”

  “Was she a great beauty? If she was, I just don’t see it.”

  He shook his head again. “The camera liked her, that’s for sure. But that wasn’t it. Back row of the chorus had a dozen girls prettier’n her.”

  “Then what was it?”

  “She was a star.” He shrugged. “That’s what it means to be a star.”

  I turned the pages: cuttings, reviewing films I’d never heard of—films for which the only negatives and prints had long ago been lost, mislaid, or destroyed by the fire department, nitrate negatives being a notorious fire hazard; other cuttings from film magazines: June Lincoln at play, June Lincoln at rest, June Lincoln on the set of The Pawnbroker’s Shirt, June Lincoln wearing a huge fur coat—which somehow dated the photograph more than the strange bobbed hair or the ubiquitous cigarettes.

  “Did you love her?”

  He shook his head. “Not like you would love a woman . . .” he said.

  There was a pause. He reached down and turned the pages. “And my wife would have killed me if she’d heard me say this . . .”

  Another pause.

  “But yeah. Skinny dead white woman. I suppose I loved her.” He closed the book.

  “But she’s not
dead to you, is she?”

  He shook his head. Then he went away. But he left me the book to look at.

  The secret of the illusion of “The Artist’s Dream” was this: It was done by carrying the girl in, holding tight on to the back of the canvas. The canvas was supported by hidden wires, so, while the artist casually, easily, carried in the canvas and placed it on the easel, he was also carrying in the girl. The painting of the girl on the easel was arranged like a roller blind, and it rolled up or down.

  “The Enchanted Casement,” on the other hand, was, literally, done with mirrors: an angled mirror which reflected the faces of people standing out of sight in the wings.

  Even today many magicians use mirrors in their acts to make you think you are seeing something you are not.

  It was easy, when you knew how it was done.

  “BEFORE WE START,” he said, “I should tell you I don’t read treatments. I tend to feel it inhibits my creativity. Don’t worry, I had a secretary do a précis, so I’m up to speed.”

  He had a beard and long hair and looked a little like Jesus, although I doubted that Jesus had such perfect teeth. He was, it appeared, the most important person I’d spoken to so far. His name was John Ray, and even I had heard of him, although I was not entirely sure what he did: his name tended to appear at the beginning of films, next to words like EXECUTIVE PRODUCER. The voice from the studio that had set up the meeting told me that they, the studio, were most excited about the fact that he had “attached himself to the project.”

  “Doesn’t the précis inhibit your creativity, too?”

  He grinned. “Now, we all think you’ve done an amazing job. Quite stunning. There are just a few things that we have a problem with.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, the Manson thing. And the idea about these kids growing up. So we’ve been tossing around a few scenarios in the office: try this for size. There’s a guy called, say, Jack Badd—two d’s, that was Donna’s idea—”

  Donna bowed her head modestly.

  “They put him away for satanic abuse, fried him in the chair, and as he dies he swears he’ll come back and destroy them all.

  “Now, it’s today, and we see these young boys getting hooked on a video arcade game called Be Badd. His face on it. And as they play the game he like, starts to possess them. Maybe there could be something strange about his face, a Jason or Freddy thing.” He stopped, as if he were seeking approval.