The Chrysanthemum Palace

~ ~ ~

THAD SLEPT NEARLY TWO HOURS with Clea beside him.

Meerkat and I spooned on the couch, dozing off between cigarettes, kisses, and long vacant stares at the broiling, turquoise-veined ocean. We didn’t hide our affections from Mom, who was perfectly content to sit and read her Sunday Book Review. With a rare full house, she was comforted by the resurrection of family.

Upon awakening, Thad took a shower (we all did, in various venues) and drew a serious second wind. It was dusk when he resurfaced, fully dressed and headache-free. Mom invited us to stay for supper but Thad sang “Hello, I must be going,” explaining he had an early call. He suggested that Clea, Miriam, and I remain; he’d send his driver for us later, which of course was completely absurd.

On the way back to Shutters, Thad suggested we dine at Chez Jay, a favorite beach haunt. (He was often ravenous after a migraine.) I wasn’t up for it, and neither was Miriam — the protracted outing was beginning to acquire a manic, marathon flavor — but we acquiesced, mostly out of caution due to the weirdness of what we had earlier witnessed. Thad still didn’t seem himself.¹

By the time we were seated, the mood had soured; congealed might be a better word. Miriam became the codependent poster child, overly solicitous of the group gestalt, her words and gestures abrasively convivial. Clea, obviously intoxicated, sniped at my “addiction” to Diet Coke — clearly, my sobriety made it impossible for her to fully enjoy her loadedness. I wanted to flee but reminded myself that apart from possessing a psychotic component which, without warning, blossomed into hallucination, our troubled friend was at this point somewhat of a wild card, and volatile enough that I worried for the girls’ safety.

For sport, we began trashing Nick Sultan and his wife. The tiny grenades, lobbed at an easy, faraway target, provided comic relief. This went on for a while. More drinks were served, more plates of calamari consumed. Clea went to the head for a long-ass time. Just when Miriam got up to check, she returned — the wily Meerkat kept right on going, cool as could be. Thad sat there, drinking and covertly eating pills; the man had a whale’s bladder. Steak and lobster arrived. I thought we were over the rough part (something having to do with a private, fanciful theory that food would absorb the chemicals) when a man with longish hair appeared.

I braced myself, hoping it wasn’t a Jetsons fan.

“Excuse me,” he said with an accent I couldn’t identify. “You are Mr. Michelet?” Thad looked up with a cold smile, readying himself for whichever assault. “I am Mikkel Skarsgaard. I am planning to make a film from your book, The Soft Sea Horse.”

“Ah!” said Thad, welcoming. “The cinematographer! Hello! Hello!”

Miriam and Clea chirped eager greetings. Thad asked him to join us.

“But I don’t wish to disturb you!” said the respectful Dane.

“No no! We insist! We’re so bored with each other’s company!”

“Yes?” he said, diffidently. “But there are three of us, no?” He nodded toward a back booth. “It is OK?”

“It is OK!”

Mikkel gathered his friends while an animated Thad requested more chairs. I was grateful for the change in mood a new cast of characters would bring. Besides, it was a nice omen. Mikkel seemed the kind, unpretentious director type, his civil, unassuming demeanor in pleasant opposition to Nick Sultan’s tritely raw ambition.

He returned to the table accompanied by a pale, towering, beetle-browed man — and Sharon Stone. I’d never seen her in person (I wasn’t a huge fan) but had to admit she was gorgeous. She wore blue jeans and a cowl-necked sweater that coddled her American thoroughbred bones — the kind of beauty you’d find in a Town & Country spread, loading up a vintage Wagoneer with groceries in Montecito in one photo, attending a cancer gala in La Jolla with Watson and Crick in another. Mikkel said they were old friends; I assumed he’d shot one of her early films. (As if in deference to the skittishness of their reedy, frozen-smiled companion, the DP’s relationship to the latter was left unexplained.) Running into them was truly auspicious because Mikkel revealed that Sharon had been considering the “movie star” role in Sea Horse—the fictionalized woman with whom the fictionalized Jack had an affair, in fictionalized Capri. Ms. Stone was a bit of a culture vulture, sharing that she’d actually seen one of Thad’s avant garde theater productions in Vienna, which excited him enormously.

When Clea reminded her they’d met some years ago at the Venice Film Festival, Sharon said “Yes!” though it was obvious she didn’t remember. I could see that she recognized Clea from the movies but wasn’t able to place her. Then Miriam announced who her mother was and everything changed — Sharon was suddenly thrilled. She was “hugely into Roosevelt Chandler” and mentioned having developed a biopic with Milos Forman that never got off the ground. Clea said she’d heard about that and was sorry it didn’t happen. In the spirit of genetic brushes with the high and mighty, Meerkat impulsively introduced me as Son of Perry Krohn. The gracious celeb claimed to be a fan of Starwatch as well, and knew (through Mikkel, who’d been told by Klotcher) Thad was doing a guest spot; Miriam efficiently informed that Clea and I were “costarring.” The actress then turned to our host, and considerately acknowledged his father’s passing. She spoke of her own near-death experience a few years back, when she hemorrhaged into her skull — a natural cue for Michelet to talk Migraine. I asked Mikkel a question or two about Sea Horse, availing Thad and Sharon their medical bonding moment.

Sharon was flying to New York early in the morning. She stood to leave, shaking hands all around with that special brio and fanatical eye contact movie stars seem to conjure at will. She saved Thad for the end, accurately assessing his dominance in the present pecking order — another hardwired, faultless celebrity instinct.

I was a little surprised when the two men remained.

“She’s so lovely,” said Clea.

“A very special lady,” said Mikkel.

“Did she actually have a stroke?” asked Miriam.

“It was… a bleeding in the brain,” said Mikkel.

“Everybody should have a stroke and look so good,” said Clea.

“She tells the story — one day you’ll hear. They were wheeling her for the surgery and the doctor was holding a paper in his hand. ‘Look! We just got a fax from People magazine!’ Can you imagine? He was happy. She fired him, right from the table. She is like a general, a warrior! Sharon wants to make a one-woman show. Would be amazing, no? Everyone would see it. Now she doesn’t give a fuck about people and how they perceive of her. Since it has happened, she is only filled with terrific joy and happiness for all the people. Not cynical Hollywood bullshit. And ten times more amazing looking than before surgery, no? You can see! The skin glows, like an angel. Something I think really spiritual happened. Maybe you can help her write a play,” he said to Thad.

“She’s incredibly beautiful,” he answered, affectlessly.

Her sudden exit had left him strangely deflated.

To be social, Mikkel asked how I made my living. (I guess he’d zoned during Miriam’s presentation of my curriculum vitae.) I told him I was an actor. This time, it was Clea who felt compelled to add that my father was the creator of Starwatch. The DP’s eyes lit up — as if by the stitch of a master tailor I had been transformed from klutz to fashionista.

“I can’t wait to begin the script,” said Thad, trying to jump-start himself.

“Mordecai is hoping to make a deal very fast,” said Mikkel.

“Mordy’s a character, isn’t he?” said Thad.

“Did you know Christopher Nolan is to exec produce?”

“No,” said Thad, with the open smile of a naïf. “He is—”

“Memento.”

“And Insomnia,” added Clea, authoritatively enthused.

“Wow,” said Thad. “Do you live here?”

“I am in New York, mostly. But when I come, I stay at Silver Lake.”

“Are you in Denmark much?” asked Miriam.

“Two times a year, but not really for film. Lately, because my mother has been ill.”

“Sorry to hear it,” said Thad.

“Ironically, I am there quite soon to shoot the Spielberg, which locates in Copenhagen for eight weeks’ time. So it seems I cannot get away.”

“But you’ll be able to see your mom,” said Miriam.

“Yes. A big side benefit,” he said, with an empty smile meant to charm.

“We didn’t meet your friend,” said Thad, gesturing at the tall, silent one.

“This is Henrik,” said Mikkel, in that smug way people have when introducing strangers to a legendary vintage from their private reserve.

The rangy eccentric dutifully echoed his own name, inducing Clea to remark to Miriam, sotto, “He’s like something out of Hans Christian Anderson!”

Thad focused on the DP. “I haven’t written a script in a while — how do you like to work?” Then, without waiting for a reply: “I’ll probably bang something out then come see you for an ‘intensive.’ ”

“Well, it is something we would have to discuss,” said Mikkel, stiffening. “I am usually making an adaptation myself. This I try and do first.” He caught Thad’s look and awkwardly amended. “But who knows? Maybe we do both ways. We both together on parallel track: then compare notes!”

The nascent director’s hedge had failed. Clea and I squirmed.

“You can make a very much lot of money,” said Henrik, precipitately.

“This giant fellow is a money man!” said Mikkel, patting his friend’s shoulder.

“We furnish you with money,” said Henrik, oddly emphasizing the word.

Gauging Thad’s mood, Mikkel said, “Oh please, not now!”

“You are his agent?” asked Henrik of Miriam, somewhat aggressively.

“His book agent, yes.”

“You are not theatrical?”

“No,” said Miriam. “But any option of material would go through me.”

She wasn’t sure why he was asking, and felt silly having replied with such formality.

“Ah! Do you drive a hard bargain?” Henrik lit up. The fairy-tale wraith had found his métier.

“She’s been known to,” said Clea, in biker chickese.

“But I wished to speak about something else,” said Henrik. “May I? Candidly?” Mikkel put a hand on Henrik’s arm, as if to demonstrate that his friend was an unruly, amusing child who it was best to indulge without taking seriously. “I am a designer from Oslo. Your father’s books are very big in Norway! I design furnishings, for the home. We would like to do a Jack Michelet line, like the Ernest Hemingway Collection — Thomasville. You heard of the company Thomasville, no? They do Hemingway, Bogart — I think soon they do Fitzgerald. All our research has adjudicated a Jack Michelet line would performance very well. I have seen photographic archives of the Vineyard compound and the homes your daddy, Black Jack — what fantastic nickname, no? — lived in through the many years. You lived there too, yes? No? You can be wonderful to consult! But this thing I am saying is that you would be perfect to announce it on television.”

“What?” said Thad, beyond flustered.

“The line,” said Henrik.

“Your movies have done well in Norway too, yes? No?” said Mikkel.

I thought it ill timed that the semifamous DP, close to optioning one of Thad’s books for his directorial debut, would allow the lobbying of his friend’s outrageous endorsement gambit. On second thought, maybe it was part of an overall deal the peculiar twosome had struck, and that in exchange for funding Sea Horse, Mikkel was beholden to “access Hollywood” for Henrik’s ludicrous hustles.

“Everyone in Denmark loves The Jetsons and Don Quixote,” said Mikkel. “You are — what is the phrase? — instantly recognizable.”

“We would fly you first class — maybe business,” said Henrik, elbowing Miriam as he chuckled. “No, I am kidding. It is private plane, the same we rode Jim Carrey. The taping of our fantastic commercial would take only two days, max, for a very nice amount of cash — or gold bullion!” He winked at Clea. “I kid again.”

He began a travel agent’s monologue about the splendors of Copenhagen and how everyone (we were all invited) would be shown its wonders.

Mikkel presciently changed tack. “Does Mordecai make the deal for underlying material?” he asked Miriam. “To effect the option?”

“I’ll give him a call,” she said, coolly.

“Mordy said it could be five thousand — which, frankly, Miriam, is too much!” She flinched at the DP’s familiarity. “It is an independent production, yes? No? And no one has shown interest! The book is out of print many years, yes? No? So I am asking for a little break. The room to wiggle. You can help affect that, yes? OK? It will be a showcase for the novel, of course, but I am thinking to do not so much an Adaptation like Charlie Kaufman but as a screenwriter to of course take certain liberties. I will keep the twins, yes, the drowned boy he is amazing, and Black Jack who is like Jack Palance in Contempt, no? — another Jack! — but also I wish to make myself a bit of a character in the movie. (This, the one thing I like very much about Adaptation. The rest, I was not so thrilled as everyone. But still it is a good movie, very good. I like Sofia better.) I wish to make a bit of experiment, for myself to act. I have spoken with Christopher Nolan and he excites. We potentially shoot in Denmark, for the light. You cannot find that light here, yes? The light here is amazing. I talk with Wim about this just last night. The light there is from my soul! I wish to make a ‘film blanc,’ not film noir! — this is what they called Insomnia too, did you see it? You saw it, no? We may ask Al to do a little something for Sea Horse. If his life and schedule allow. Pacino has busy, busy life! But he is amazing. He would do this for Christopher. I wish to explore what it means the tradition of a DP directing a first film. A Danish DP — like me, yes? No? — who makes film in the middle of divorce.”

“Like yourself!” said Henrik, gleefully.

“Yes, myself!”

“A Sea Horse marriage — also ‘out of print’!” said Henrik, wickedly. “A marriage that is now unfurnished.”

Mikkel laughed, ruefully. “So I was thinking more in the ‘ballpark’ of a few thousand for the option, the rest deferred. Back end. We all defer on this project.”

“We have back ends like Jennifer Lopez!”

“It is a project of love, OK? No? Just so when you talk to Mordecai.”

Miriam nodded in exasperation. We wondered how much longer the onslaught would last. Clea had literally wedged herself into Thad, to brace him.

“We can pay you with a Jack Michelet sofa!” said Henrik, nudging Thad while clapping enormous, skeletal hands. “I can tell you are a couch potato so you’ll love the design! Your daddy had eyes for things inventive but solidly built — like his women! He liked the women, yes? You are like that, no? We are all like that, even the women like the women! But in his fiction he could create a mood, an ambience. Is what he did with novels, yes? You try to do that, almost. I only read your one book, the Sea Horse. But one day you succeed across the boards! One day we have the Thad Michelet sofa, father and son furnishings!” His voice lowered and he grew serious. “The architectural look of Mr. Black Jack was colonial elegance — very much closer to Papa in Cuba. Or the Bogart Romanoff party table, have you seen? I send the Thomasville catalogue, you will love their Chesterfield table. A leather sleigh bed and amazing Bogart ‘El Morocco’ bar and stool. In our collection we have the Michelet ‘Vineyard’ divan.

“I am calling the fabric Chrysanthemum—all named after books and residences — already I am visited the best mills in China.”

¹ Please forgive the small, broken promise of this final annotation. But in the rereading, “Thad still didn’t seem himself” now strikes me as presumptuous and a little arrogant. I don’t think any of us know who we are — let alone what defines others. Maybe that’s just the Culver City guru in me talking.