Gravity’s Volkswagen

Fourteen

If history has taught us anything (and I know it’s a big if, and I’m not sure quite who the ‘us’ is, but anyway…) it’s that bad guys come in all shapes and sizes, and in all manner of disguises. If evil tendencies went along with clearly identifiable markers, such as an ugly physiognomy or a black hat, life would be much simpler. Of course the Nazis made it pretty simple. They wore jackboots, sported death’s head insignia, they shouted loudly and unpleasantly in German, they had a dodgy salute. In retrospect even those pre-war Beetle prototypes have a distinctly sinister, satanic look about them.

When I wrote Volkswagens and Velociraptors, I didn’t want my anti-hero Troy, the character who turns into a little Hitler, then into a bigger one, to be too obviously or primarily a fascist. And I didn’t want the allegory to be too obvious. I did make him small and dark and resentful but I didn’t want him to be an absolute dead ringer for Hitler. I didn’t want to make him a disgruntled ex-soldier or a failed artist. I didn’t want to give him a toothbrush mustache. I wanted him to be an Everyman who just happened to turn into a Führer. That’s why I made him a used-car salesman, and a very English used-car salesman at that.

So naturally I was curious to see which actor was playing Troy in the movie. I’d seen the whole cast by now, and there wasn’t an obvious Troy among them. There was, however, one guy who stood out from the others because he was so much more glamorous and better looking than everyone else. He was more buff, more golden, more like a star, although you’d probably have said a TV star rather than a movie star. His name was Angelo Sterling and he was curiously ageless: he could have been a young guy with maturity and gravitas beyond his years, or he could have been an older guy who’d retained his youthful aura. He didn’t look Aryan exactly, though he did have elements of a Viking and a beach bum about him. He was the last person in the world I’d have thought would make a good Troy. Needless to say, he was playing Troy.

“Hi, Ian,” he said, joining me as I was foraging for breakfast next morning. “I’m Angelo. I’m your Troy.”

We had another one of those conversations about whether or not he was the way I’d imagined my character. I’d have been happy to lie and say he was just fine, but I was too slow, or he was too quick.

“It’s OK,” he said, “I know I’m all wrong for the part. I read the script and I thought, Angelo, there’s no part there for you. And I didn’t really get the concept. It didn’t come alive for me. So I went away and read the book, your book, the original, and then I got it, and I loved it, and even though I still didn’t see myself as Troy I really wanted to be a part of the project. So I signed on. Just to be involved was enough for me. I said I’d be happy to play some minor supporting role. Anything. But you know, I’m cursed with these pretty-boy, leading-man good looks, and one thing led to another, so here I am, and I’m your Troy. Hope that isn’t a problem for you.”

I said it wasn’t.

“And, Ian, trust me, the script is changing all the time, and my input is to try to move it closer to your original intention, to make Troy more of an Everyman character. That’s what you wrote, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes it is, actually.”

I assumed there was a big act going on here, but it didn’t seem such a bad act, and it wasn’t an unintelligent one. If nothing else, it sounded like he understood what I’d written.

“What did you think of the script incidentally?” he asked.

“I haven’t read it,” I said.

“What?” He sounded scandalised, and offended on my behalf, then he had second thoughts. “But OK, on this picture, yeah, that sounds about par for the course. It’s that kind of deal. And maybe you’ve been spared. Between you and me, there are script problems. From reading your book I can tell you really care about dialogue. Your dialogue really crackles. If there’s one thing Josh Martin can’t write it’s crackling dialogue. Actually that’s just one of the many things Josh Martin can’t write. Sorry, I don’t mean to whine.”

“OK,” I said, and I must have looked worried.

“Look, I don’t mean to sound disloyal,” Angelo said, sounding utterly disloyal, “but the fact is, I’m worried that Josh Martin is seriously fucking up this project. It’s running away from him, if it hasn’t already. The crew hates him. Most of the cast don’t trust him. And God knows how the money men feel about him.”

If I’d looked worried before, I must surely have looked infinitely more worried now.

“Maybe you can do something to help,” Angelo said brightly. “I don’t mean rewrite the whole script, though I’m sure you could if you wanted to, but you know, just talk to Josh a little, be gentle with him, try to get him back on the right track. I’m sure you’re really good at that stuff. He’s really got to calm down, otherwise…”

“Otherwise what?”

“Dude, you’re the one with the imagination…”

At that moment he struck me as a man who was far too old to use the word dude unironically, but maybe he was being ironic. I hoped so.

Of course, when some alpha male who also happens to be an actor, and a Hollywood actor at that, starts flattering you, you’re bound to be suspicious. Naturally I thought Angelo Sterling must have some ulterior motive. In fact that’s pretty much how I’d react to anybody who tried to flatter me. I didn’t want to fall for this guy’s charisma and charm, but equally I didn’t want to dismiss him simply because he was charismatic and charming.

Whether I fell for his flattery or not, the news he was delivering about the state of the movie, that Josh Martin was out of his depth, that he’d lost the confidence of his crew and lost control of the production, was pretty devastating. The movie wasn’t my responsibility, but it was certainly my concern. If the whole thing was a failure, that wouldn’t reflect particularly badly on me, and yet at that moment, having got this far, I realised how very much I wanted the movie to succeed. If there was anything I could do to help, I would, but I wasn’t sure there was.

“I can see you’re doubtful,” Angelo said. “Why wouldn’t you be? You don’t know me. You’ve got no reason to trust me. I could be trying to manipulate you for my own devious ends. But, Ian, here’s a suggestion, if you really want to see the way things are around here, go up to Josh and say, ‘What about the velociraptors?’”

So I did. It was a good question, and one I’d been asking myself all along. Of course I hadn’t expected to see the actual, or fake, critters walking round the set, but I had expected to see some evidence of their, at least cinematic, existence. Even if Angelo had an agenda, and even if it was different from mine, what harm could it do to hear what Josh Martin had to say?

I tried to pick a good moment. It wasn’t as if I went up to him while he was in the middle of setting up some fiendishly tricky shot or directing his actors in his some profoundly heart-breaking scene. I found him looking reasonably relaxed, standing by a giant cooler full of soft drinks. He was swigging on a bottle of vitamin water, and we began by having a reasonably civilised conversation about the nature of the light in California. We agreed that it had certain advantages over the light in England. He seemed comparatively happy. He said I’d done a fine job of taking money over to the freak show. I hadn’t been robbed or otherwise molested and the silence had fallen as and when it was required. This was all good. We seemed to be getting along just dandy, so I thought it was as good a time as any to ask the question.

I even thought I was being tactful. It wasn’t as if I demanded to know where the velociraptors were and how he was going to make them work in the movie and when. I just said, perfectly casually as it seemed to me, “So, Josh, what about these velociraptors…?”

And that was enough. That was more than enough. A red tide flooded up through Josh Martin’s face, a red mist gathered in his eyes and I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if red steam had started spouting from his ears. Yes, there was something comical and cartoonish about the instantaneous way his anger flushed through him and took him over, but that didn’t make it any less scary.

He crushed the plastic bottle in his hand, but I felt he’d have been equally able to crush a lump of solid metal, and certainly he could have done some serious damage to any part of somebody’s flesh that had come within his range. I made some rapid and decisive moves to make sure I was outside that range. I backed away defensively but he came right after me, not too quickly and not desperately. He had plenty of time: there was something relentless and unstoppable about him. He was coming to get me. And he was yelling something about me being just like all the others, about me knowing nothing, understanding nothing, having no concept of special effects and computer-generated images, no grasp of movie finances, having no faith, no trust, no basic humanity.

I thought this was all a bit much. Some of it was well wide of the mark, and almost all of it was unfair. I’d have been the first to admit that I knew nothing about special effects and computer-generated images, but I didn’t think I was supposed to. Movie finances were surely none of my business either. And I certainly didn’t think Josh Martin knew me well enough to make any judgement about my humanity, basic or advanced. Still, it wasn’t the moment to debate such matters.

I increased the speed of my retreat, moving swiftly backwards in the direction of the trailer-park gate, reckoning that sooner or later I might have to turn my back on my crazed director and make a run for it. There was a new security guard on the gate, but like the previous one he wasn’t much interested in what was going on inside the trailer park, just determined to keep people out.

Josh Martin bore down on me. Who knows what would have happened if he’d caught me and set hands upon me? Perhaps when it came down to it he’d have realised it was a bad idea for a movie director to maim the man who’d originated his source material. It would surely have made morale on the set even worse. Or perhaps somebody, an actor, one of the crew, even the security guard, would have stepped in and restrained him. Still, I didn’t wait to find out.

I sprinted through the gate and made it into the world outside the trailer park. It was an escape of a sort, but it was a very bleak world out there. Josh Martin shouted after me, “You can run but you can’t hide,” although actually I intended to do both.

Now he came running too. We were both driven by desperate urges: mine to survive, his to hurt. It might have been interesting to find out which urge was stronger, but I much preferred not to. And then I heard the sound of a car engine. It wasn’t familiar exactly, but it was certainly unmistakable. It was the stunt Beetle from the freak show, the one I’d seen Leezza do her flying jump in the previous night, and it was now barrelling along the empty road, coming towards me, Leezza at the wheel as before, though no longer in the flame-coloured wig or the big-breasted, flame-retardant suit or the wraparound, diamante sunglasses.

My guess was that the vehicle was built for straight-line speed rather than manoeuvrability, but even so I leapt out in front of it, and Leezza had the presence of mind and the skill to swerve and slow down, just enough for me to jump in.

If Leezza was surprised by events, she didn’t show it. Maybe this was the sort of conflict and mayhem you got accustomed to if you were part of an automotive freak show. Or maybe she had a very placid personality. Either way she didn’t add to the drama. She put her foot down and we accelerated away, leaving behind in our wake the apparently unstoppable force that was Josh Martin. There was only one seat in the Beetle so I crouched on the bare metal of the floorpan and held on to whatever bits of welded tubing and bodywork I could find. It was a wild ride, a tough ride, a loud ride, but it wasn’t a bad ride.

“Is this thing street-legal?” I shouted above the engine roar.

“Well, it’s in the street, isn’t it?” said Leezza.