The Chrysanthemum Palace

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WARDROBE WENT ALL OUT: CLEA wore a diaphanous tunic, a madcap yet demure rip-off of a widely publicized haute couture design which had appeared on Parisian runways just two weeks before. How strange, seeing Thad and Clea stand together with transformed, angular faces that, while not exactly gruesome (perhaps I’d grown accustomed), were still within shout-out of an atavistic nightmare. It was as if I had donned special glasses, affording a view of the ordinarily imperceptible “alien” dynamic that lay just beneath the surface of any chemically complex, long-term, passionately erotic alliance. I wondered how Miriam and I would look, through the same magic spectacles. Probably nowhere near as interesting.

We were pondering whether to have the strawberry shortcake or peach cobbler à la mode when Nick Sultan, our properly English director, arrived with a tray of meat and potatoes. He diffidently asked if he might join us (directors always seem to begin their meals just as everyone else is finishing). Not wanting to be rude, we obliged.

“That was such a great scene,” he said.

He referred, of course, to the moment in which it was revealed that our own Ensign Rattweil was none other than a Vorbalidian prince in exile. See, Thad’s father, the king, was near death; hijacking the Demeter was the family’s way of bringing the runaway royal home to take care of unfinished business — i.e., the sticky wicket of succession to the throne involving his nasty twin, Prince Morloch.

“I was in tears. You were brilliant.” Gentleman that he was, the helmer hastily included Clea and myself (glimpsewise) in his encomia. “I’m so glad you’re doing the show,” he said, now strictly addressing the famed guest star. “You wouldn’t believe who’s addicted to Starwatch. It’s bizarre.” The last, accompanied by a fuller glance in my direction, as I must naturally be the residing expert on the cult franchise’s global appeal.

“I know,” said Thad. “I read somewhere that Rumsfeld’s a fan.”

“Yes!” said Nick, gleefully. “I’d heard that! And Dylan! Dylan’s supposedly obsessed!”

“Wow,” Thad said, without irony.

“David Sedaris is very big on it.”

“Really.”

“Oh yes. And the girl who wrote — not Adaptation but… The Orchid Thief. And who’s the Atonement writer?”

“Ian McEwan? You’re kidding.”

“McEwan! Yes. Big, big fan.”

“Well… I’m shocked!” said Thad, in dismay.

“By the way, I hadn’t told you, but I thought you were absolutely amazing in Quixote. Brilliant!”

“Thank you. Working with Terry is an ‘experience.’ ”

“Gilliam! There’s a wild bloke!”

“He’s very wonderful.”

“A mad boy but a wicked talent,” said Nick. “And great good fun. We worked together ten years ago, in Scotland.” Thad didn’t bother inquiring further. “Did your father ever see the show?”

“I don’t think so. Dad didn’t watch much TV. But you never know!” he exclaimed. “I could be wrong — Jack Michelet may very well have been a closet Starwatch fanatic! Right up there with Ben Stiller, Naguib Mahfouz, and Susan Sontag! Could’ve been”—this, à la Charlie Chan—“Numbah One Fan!”

“I guess,” Nick conceded, “you don’t become that prolific sitting around watching the telly.”

Thad registered the innocent comment as a dig: performing on the telly was an existentially malignant exercise. You might as well be a clown with leukemia.

“I hear you’ve written books,” said Nick. “Novels, right? To me, that’s absolutely the toughest thing. And to write in the shadow of that man.” He grinned, shaking his head. “Bit like being a sherpa to Hillary.”

“Our styles are pretty different,” said Thad politely, gathering his tray to leave.

Clea’s face was like a Tornado Alley weather vane — the tremble before the wild-ass spin. “Does he mean Hillary Clinton?” she said with a fake smile, buying time so that some of us could make it to the storm cellar.

“Rather like me having John Huston for a father — to put it in filmic terms.” Nick shoveled up peas, potatoes, and a fatty square of pork chop. “Tell me, though, didja feel a lift with his passing? I don’t mean ‘glad.’ It’s just that, well, personally, I was so competitive with me old man. Most sons are. And he was no genius, thank you — thank God for that! Not that I am. Compared to him, maybe. A haberdasher, he was. Good at what he did, worked on Savile Row. Never saw a thing of mine, not even a student film. S’pose he was competitive as well, maybe more so. What I’m driving at is: was it a lift, Thad? Is it easier now that he’s gone? In the sense of, well, d’ya find you’re doing a bit less shadowboxing?”

“Not really.”

“I don’t mean to psychoanalyze! Probably projecting a bit — still working out my own stuff. When I was in college, I read a book of his called Chrysanthemum.”

Again, Clea blacked up. Noticing her mood change, Thad grew strangely perky. “Glad to hear it! It’s not one of his better-knowns.”

“True,” said the director, matter-of-factly. “Can’t say why.”

“There are some rather explicit passages,” said Thad. “Almost pornographic, don’t you think, Clea? A few of the libraries tried to ban it, stateside. A town somewhere in Ohio actually had a book burning.”

“Don’t fuck with Ohioans!” said Nick. “Did an Old Navy shoot there once, don’t ask me why. Lovely college, though — Wexner? Wexler? Spoke to a film class; gave me a brickload of coin. There’s money there but it was dull. Thuggish. Middle American, right? Not for me. I’m a bit of a mad boy, like Terry. I’m dying to do a feature.” He rubbed his hands together, like a hobo at a trash-can fire. “TV’s fun but you’re a bit in the box. It has grown up, with cable and such. I mean, it’s what Dennis Potter was doing thirty years ago, hunh? Hard to watch your mates pass you by. Tony Minghella and the Scott brothers — those were me mates! They threw me some commercials — they’re the kings of that world — but I won’t spend my life on cranes swooping down on a fucking Lexus. If I want to give a BMW a blow job, I’ll do it in the privacy of my garage, thank you very much! The really great thing about TV is it’s so fucking immediate—I don’t have to tell you—doesn’t drag on a year or two, like film. Still, I’m chompin’ at the bit. There’s nothin’ like the movies!” He paused to shovel in food. “But they kill you if you’re ‘askew,’ right? If that’s your sensibility. What’d they do to Orson Welles? It’s All True. Ever see that? The studio fucked him in Brazil while they mutilated Ambersons in L.A. That’s how they reward you if you’re ‘askew’! Still, I’d love to have a go at Chrysanthemum. It’s one of those pieces I dread picking up Variety to see it’s snapped up by someone who’s going to mutilate it — or worse, do it justice!”

He laughed heartily at the last remark.

“I’m gonna go have a cigarette,” said Clea, then left.

“I was wondering, Thad? Have you written for the screen? Have you thought about it?”

“Well, yes. But I don’t suppose I’ve made a serious effort.”

“Might you consider adapting Chrysanthemum to film? I’m bloody serious, you know.”

Thad’s face froze in a creepy smile; I chose to intervene.

“You know, Nick, I’m pretty sure my father has the option on that.”

“Oh yes, I know! And we’ve talked about it, Perry and I — we’ve discussed it. Casually, at first. When he found out how passionate I was about the property… well, that he owned the option turned out the most amazing thing. Magical, really. I mean I can’t even remember, we were talking and it just came out of nowhere. He didn’t mind the idea of attaching me to it, on a handshake — that’s how I like to do things. How your dad operates too. S’pose that’s how he’s gotten all this way, right? When I suggested Thad have a go at it, he thought: Brilliant! We were having a coffee and Perry said your agent — she’s called Miriam? — he said Miriam had already been in touch about novelizing ‘Prodigal Son.’ I thought that a tragic waste! May as well put you to work on something epic, something decent, right? Something really brilliant.”