The Destiny of Nathalie X

Man’s Voice(over)

IONCE HEARD a theory about this town, this place where we work and wrangle, where we swindle and swive. It was told to me by this writer I knew. He said: “It’s only a dance, but then again, it’s the only dance.” I’m not so sure he’s right, but anyway, he’s dead now …

Fade In

ONCE UPON a time — actually, not so very long ago at all, come to think of it — in east-central West Africa, on one enervating May morning, Aurélien No sat on the stoop of his father’s house staring aimlessly at the road that led to Murkina Leto, state capital of the People’s Republic of Kiq. The sun’s force seemed to press upon the dusty brown landscape with redundant intensity, Aurélien thought idly, there was no moisture left out there to evaporate and it seemed … He searched for a word for a second or two: it seemed “stupid” that all that calorific energy should go to waste.

He called for his little brother Marius to fetch him another beer but no reply came from inside the house. He scratched his cheek; he thought he could taste metal in his mouth — that new filling. He shifted his weight on his cane chair and wondered vaguely why cane made that curious squeaking sound. Then his eye was caught by the sight of a small blue van that was making its way up the middle of the road with what seemed like undue celerity, tooting its horn at the occasional roadside pedestrian and browsing cow not so much to scare them out of the way as to announce the importance of this errand it was on.

To Aurélien’s mild astonishment the blue van turned abruptly into his father’s driveway and stopped equally abruptly before the front door. As the laterite dust thrown up by the tires slowly dispersed, the postman emerged from the auburn cloud like a messenger from the gods carrying before him a stiff envelope blazoned with an important-looking crest.

MARIUS NO. For sure, I remember that day when he won the prize. Personally, I was glad of the distraction. He had been emmerding me all morning. “Get this,” “Get that,” “Fetch me a beer.” I just knew it had gone quiet for ten minutes. When I came out onto the stoop he was sitting there, looking even more vacant than normal, just staring at this paper in his hands. “Hey, Coco,” I said to him. “Military service, mmm? Poor salaud. Wait till those bastard sergeants give you one up the cul.” He said nothing, so I took the paper from his hands and read it. It was the hundred thousand francs that had shocked him, struck him dumb.

When Le Destin de Nathalie X (metteur en scène Aurélien No) won the Prix d’Or at the concours général in Paris of l’Ecole Supérieure des Etudes Cinématographiques (ESEC), the Kiq minister of culture (Aurélien’s brother-in-law) laid on a reception for two hundred guests at the ministry. After a long speech the minister called Aurélien onto the podium to shake his hand. Aurélien had gathered his small tight dreadlocks into a loose sheaf on the top of his head, and the photographs from that special evening show him startled and blinking in a silvery wash of the flashbulbs, some natural flinch causing the fronds of his dreadlock sheaf to toss simultaneously in one direction as if blown by a stiff breeze.

The minister asked him what he planned to do with the prize money.

“Good question,” Aurélien said, and thought for ten seconds or so before replying. “It’s a condition of the prize that I put the money toward another film.”

“Here in Kiq?” the minister said, smiling knowingly.

“Of course.”

DELPHINE DRELLE. “It’s impossible,” I said when he called me. “Completely out of the question. Are you mad? What kind of film could you make in Kiq?” He came to my apartment in Paris, he said he wanted me to be in his new film. I say I don’t want to be an actress. Well, as soon as I started explaining Aurélien saw I was making sense. That’s what I like about Aurélien, by the way, he is responsive to the powers of reason. Absolutely not, I said to Aurélien, never in my life. He said he had an idea, but only I could do it. I said, look what happened the last time, do you think I’m crazy? I’ve only been out of the clinic one month. He just smiled at me. He said, what do you think if we go to Hollywood?

Aurélien No turned out of the rental park at LAX and wondered which direction to take. Delphine Drelle sat beside him studying her face intently in the mirror of her compact and moaning about the dehydrating effect of international air travel. In the back seat of the car sat Bertrand Holbish, a photographer, and ex-boyfriend of Delphine, squashed in the cramped space left by the two large scratched and dented silver aluminum boxes that held the camera and the sound equipment.

Aurélien turned left, drove four hundred meters and turned left again. He saw a sign directing him to the freeway and followed it until he reached a hotel. DOLLARWIZE INN, he saw it was called as he pulled carefully into the forecourt. The hotel was a six-story rectangle. The orange plastic cladding on the balconies had been bleached salmon pink by the sun.

“Here we are,” Aurélien said. “This is perfect.”

“Where’s Hollywood?” Bertrand Holbish asked.

“Can’t be far away,” Aurélien said.

BERTRAND HOLBISH. Immediately, when he asked me, I said to Aurélien that I didn’t know much about sound. He said you switch it on, you point the volume. No, you check the volume and you point the, ah, what’s the word?… What? Ah yes, “boom.” I said: You pay my ticket? You buy me drugs? He said of course, only don’t touch Delphine. [Laughs, coughs] That’s Aurélien for you, one crazy guy.

DELPHINE DRELLE. Did I tell you that he is a very attractive man, Aurélien? Yes? He’s a real African, you know, strong face, strong African face … and his lips, they’re like they’re carved. He’s tall, slim. He has this hair, it’s like that tennis player, Noah, like little braids hanging down over his forehead. Sometimes he puts beads on the end of them. I don’t like it so much. I want him to shave his head. Completely. He speaks real good English, Aurélien. I never knew this about him. I asked him once how he pronounced his name and he said something like “Ngoh.” He says it is a common name in Kiq. But everybody pronounces it differently. He doesn’t mind.

When Aurélien went out the next day to scout for locations, he discovered that the area they were staying in was called Westchester. He drove through the featureless streets — unusually wide, he thought, for such an inactive neighborhood — the air charged and thunderous with landing jetliners, until he found a small cluster of shops beneath a revolving sign declaiming BROGAN’S MINI-MALL. There was a deli, a pharmacy, a novelty store, a Korean grocery and a pizzeria-cum-coffee-shop that had most of the features he was looking for: half a dozen tables on the sidewalk, a predominantly male staff, a license to sell alcoholic beverages. He went inside, ordered a cappuccino and asked how long they stayed open in the evenings. Late, came the answer. For the first time since he had suggested coming to Los Angeles Aurélien sensed a small tremor of excitement. Perhaps it would be possible after all. He looked at the expressionless tawny faces of the men behind the counter and the cheerful youths serving food and drink. He felt sure these gentlemen would allow him to film in their establishment — for a modest fee, of course.

MICHAEL SCOTT GEHN. Have you ever seen Le Destin de Nathalie X? Extraordinary film, extraordinary. No, I tell you, I’d put it right up there with Un Chien andalou, J.J. Todd’s Last Walk, The Chelsea Girls, Downey’s Chafed Elbows. That category of film. Surreal, bizarre … Let’s not beat about the bush, sometimes downright incomprehensible, but it gets to you. Somehow, subcutaneously. You know, I spend more time thinking about certain scenes in Nathalie X than I do about Warner’s annual slate. And it’s my business, what more can I say? Do you smoke? Do you have any nonviolent objections if I do? Thank you, you’re very gracious. I’m not kidding, you can’t be too careful here. Nathalie X … OK. It’s very simple and outstandingly clever. A girl wakes up in her bed in her room—

Aurélien looked at his map. Delphine and Bertrand stood at his shoulder, sunglassed, fractious.

“We have to go from here … to here.”

“Aurélien, when are we going to film?”

“Tomorrow. Maybe. First we walk it through.”

Delphine let her shoulders slump. “But we have the stock. Why don’t we start?”

“I don’t know. I need an idea. Let’s walk it through.”

He took Bertrand’s elbow and guided him across the road to the other side. He made half a square with his thumbs and his forefingers and framed Delphine in it as she lounged against the exit sign of the Dollarwize Inn.

“Turn right,” Aurélien shouted across the road. “I’ll tell you which way to go.”

MICHAEL SCOTT GEHN. — A girl wakes up in her own bed in her own room, somewhere in Paris. She gets out of bed and puts on her makeup, very slowly, very deliberately. No score, just the noises she makes as she goes about her business. You know, paints her nails, mascara on eyelashes. She hums a bit, she starts to sing a song to herself, snatches of a song in English. Beatles song, from the “White Album,” what’s it called? Oh yeah: “Rocky Raccoon.” This girl’s French, right, and she’s singing in English with a French accent, just quietly to herself. The song sounds totally different. Totally. Extraordinary effect. Bodywide goose bumps. This takes about twenty, thirty minutes. You are completely, but completely held. You do not notice the time passing. That something so totally — let’s not beat about the bush — banal, can hold you that way. Extraordinary. We’re talking mundanity, here, absolute diurnal minutiae. I see, what, two hundred and fifty movies a year in my business, not counting TV. I am replete with film. Sated. But I am held. No, mesmerized would be fair. [Pause] Did I tell you the girl was naked?

“Turn left,” Aurélien called.

Delphine obliged and walked past the mirror glass façade of an office building.

“Stop.”

Aurélien made a note on the map and turned to Bertrand.

“What could she do here, Bertrand? She needs to do something.”

“I don’t know. How should I know?”

“Something makes her stop.”

“She could step in some dogshit.”

Aurélien reflected for a while. He looked around him: at the cracked parched concrete of the street, the dusty burnish on the few parked cars. There was a bleached, fumy quality to the light that day, a softened glare that hurt the eyes. The air reverberated as another jumbo hauled itself out of LAX.

“Not a bad idea,” he said. “Thanks, Bertrand.” He called to Delphine. “OK, go up to the end of the road and turn left.”

MICHAEL SCOTT GEHN. I’ve written a lot about this movie, analyzed the hell out of it, the way it’s shot, the way it manipulates mood, but it only struck me the other day how it works. Essentially, basically. It’s all in the title, you see. Le Destin. “The Destiny of Nathalie X.” Destiny. What does destiny have in store for this girl, I should say, this astoundingly attractive girl? She gets up, she puts on her makeup, she sings a song, she gets dressed. She leaves her apartment building and walks through the streets of Paris to a café. It’s nighttime. She sits in this café and orders a beer. We’re watching her, we’re waiting. She drinks more beers, she seems to be getting drunk. People come and go. We wait. We wonder. What is the destiny of Nathalie X? (It’s pronounced “Eeeks” in French. Not “Ecks,” “Eeeks.”) And then? But I don’t want to spoil the movie for you.

They started filming on their sixth day in Los Angeles. It was late afternoon — almost magic hour — and the orange sun basted the city in a thick viscous light. Aurélien shot the sequence of the walk in front of the mirror glass building. The moving cloudscape on the mirror glass curtain wall was disturbingly beautiful. Aurélien had a moment’s regret that he was filming in black and white.

Delphine wore a short black skirt and a loose, V-neck taupe cashmere sweater (no bra). On her feet she wore skin-colored kid loafers, so fine you could roll them into a ball. She had a fringed suede bag over her shoulder. Her long hair was dyed a light sandy blond and — after much debate — was down.

Aurélien set up the camera across the road for the first take. Bertrand stood beside him and pointed his microphone in the general direction of Delphine.

Aurélien switched on the camera, chalked scene one on the clapper board, walked into the frame, clicked it and said, “Vas y, Delphine.”

Nathalie X walked along the sidewalk. When she reached the middle of the mirror glass she stopped. She took off one of her shoes and peeled the coin of chewing gum from its sole. She stuck the gum to the glass wall, refitted her shoe and walked on.

MICHAEL SCOTT GEHN. I have to say as a gesture of contempt for Western materialism, the capitalist macrostructure that we function in, that takes some beating. And it’s not in the French version. Aurélien No has been six days in Los Angeles and he comes up with something as succinct, as moodily epiphanic as that. That’s what I call talent. Not raw talent, talent of the highest sophistication.

BERTRAND HOLBISH. The way Delphine cut her hair, you know, is the clue, I think. It’s blond, right? Long and she has a fringe, OK? But not like anybody else’s fringe. It’s just too long. It hangs to her lower eyelash. To here [gestures], to the middle of her nose. So she shakes her head all the time to clear her vision a little. She pulls it aside — like this — with one finger when she wants to see something a little better … You know, many many people look at Delphine and find this very exciting, sexually, I mean. She’s a pretty girl, for sure, nice body, nice face. But I see these girls everywhere. Especially in Los Angeles. It’s something about this fringe business that makes her different. People look at her all the time. When we were waiting for Aurélien we — Delphine and me — used to play backgammon. For hours. The fringe, hanging there, over her eyes. It drove me fucking crazy. I offered her five hundred dollars to cut it one centimeter, just one centimeter. She refused. She knew, Delphine, she knew.

Aurélien filmed the walk to the café first. It took four days, starting late afternoon, always approaching the café at dusk. He filmed Nathalie’s levée in one sustained twelve-hour burst. Delphine woke, made up, sang and dressed eight times that day in a series of long takes, cuts only coming when the film ran out. The song changed: Delphine sang Bob Dylan’s “She Belongs to Me” with the pronoun changed to “He.” This was Delphine’s idea, and a good one Aurélien thought, the only problem was she kept forgetting. “He’s an artist, she don’t look back,” Delphine sang in her flat breathy voice as she combed her hair, “He never stumbles, she’s got no place to fall.”

Every evening they would go to the pizzeria and eat. Aurélien insisted that Delphine get drunk, not knee-walking drunk, but as far as woozy inebriation. Of course the waiters came to know them and conversation ensued. “What you guys doin’ here anyway? Making a movie? Great. Another beer for the lady? No problemo.”

After a week’s regular visiting Aurélien asked the owner, a small nervy man called George Malinverno, if they could film at the pizzeria, outside on the “terrace,” for one night only. They agreed on a remuneration of two hundred dollars.

MICHAEL SCOTT GEHN. Have you ever heard of the Topeka Film Festival? That’s Topeka, Kansas? No? Neither have I. So you can understand that I was kind of pissed when my editor assigned me to cover it. It ran a week, the theme was “Kansas in the Western, 1970–1980.” It’s not my subject, my last book was on Murnau, for Christ’s sake, but let’s not get embroiled in office politics. The point is I’m on my way to the airport and I realize I’ve left my razor and shaving foam behind. I pull into this mini-mall where there’s a pharmacy. I’m coming out of the shop and I see there’s a film crew setting up a shot of the pizzeria. Normally I see a film crew and chronic catatonia sets in. But there’s something about this one: the guy holding the boom mike looks like he’s stoned — even I can see that it keeps dropping into the shot. So I wander over. The camera is set up behind these plants, kind of poking through a gap, like it’s hidden or something. And there’s this black guy behind the camera with this great hair with beads on it. I see he’s D.P. and clapper boy and director. He calls out into the darkness and this sensational-looking girl walks into the pizzeria terrace thing. She sits down and orders a beer and they just keep filming. After about two minutes the soundman drops the boom and they have to start over. I hear them talking — French. I couldn’t believe it. I had this guy figured for some wannabe homeboy director out of South Central LA. But they’re talking French to each other. When was the last time a French crew shot a movie in this town? I introduced myself and that’s when he told me about Nathalie X and the Prix d’Or. I bought them all some drinks and he told me his story and gave me a videocassette of the movie. Fuck Topeka, I thought, I knew this was too good to miss. French underground movies shooting next door to LAX. Are you kidding me? They were all staying in some fleabag motel under the flight path, for God’s sake. I called my editor and threatened to take the feature to American Film. He reassigned me.

The night’s shooting at the pizzeria did not go well. Bertrand proved incapable of holding the boom aloft for more than two minutes and this was one sequence where Aurélien knew he needed sound. He spent half an hour taping a mike under Delphine’s table and snaking the wires around behind the potted plants. Then this man who said he was a film critic turned up and offered to buy them a drink. When Aurélien was talking to him, Delphine drank three margaritas and a negroni. When they tried to restart, her reflexes had slowed to such an extent that when she remembered she had to throw the glass of beer, the waiter had turned away and she missed completely. Aurélien wrapped it up for the night. Holbish wandered off and Aurélien drove Delphine back to the hotel. She was sick in the parking lot and started to cry and that’s when Aurélien thought about the gun.

KAISER PREVOST. I rarely read film/e. It’s way too pretentious. Ditto that creep Michael Scott Gehn. Any guy with three names and I get irrationally angry. What’s wrong with plain old Michael Gehn? Are there so many Michael Gehns out there that he has to distinguish himself? “Oh, you mean Michael Scott Gehn, I got you now.” I’d like a Teacher’s, straight up, with three ice cubes. Three. Thank you. Anyway, for some reason I bought it that week — it was the issue with that great shot of Jessica, no, Lanier on the cover — and I read the piece about this French director Aurélien No and this remake Seeing Through Nathalie he was shooting in town. Gehn — sorry, Michael Scott Gehn — is going on like this guy is sitting there holding God’s hand and I read about the Prix d’Or and this Nathalie X film and I think, hmmm, has Aurélien got representation? This is Haig. This is not Teacher’s.

MICHAEL SCOTT GEHN. I knew, I just knew when this young guy Kaiser Prevost calls me up, things would change. “Hi, Michael,” he says. “Kaiser Prevost here.” I don’t know jack shit about any Kaiser Prevost but I do know I hate it when someone uses my Christian name from the get-go — what’s wrong with Mr. Gehn? Also his tone just assumes, just oozes the assumption that I’m going to know who he is. I mean, I am a film critic of some reputation, if I may be immodest for a moment, and these young guys in the agencies … There’s a problem of perspectives, that’s what it comes down to, that’s what bedevils us. I have a theory about this town: there is no overview, nobody steps back, no one stands on the mountain looking down on the valley. Imagine an army composed entirely of officers. Let me put it another way: imagine an army where everyone thinks they’re an officer. That’s Hollywood, that’s the film business. No one wants to accept the hierarchy, no one will admit they are a foot soldier. And I’m sorry, a young agent in a boutique agency is just a G.I. Joe to me. Still, he was a persuasive fellow and he had some astute and flattering things to say about the article. I told him where Aurélien was staying.

Aurélien No met Kaiser Prevost for breakfast in the coffee shop of the Dollarwize. Prevost looked around him as if he had just emerged from some prolonged comatose sleep.

“You know, I’ve lived in this town for all my life and I don’t think I’ve ever even driven through here. And as for shooting a movie … It’s a first!”

“Well, it was right for me.”

“Oh no. I appreciate that. I think it’s fresh, original. Gehn certainly thinks a lot of you.”

“Who?”

Prevost showed him the article in film/e. Aurélien flicked through it. “He has written a lot.”

“Have you got a rough assembly of the new movie? Anything I could see?”

“No.”

“Any dailies? Maybe you call them rushes.”

“There are no dailies on this film. None of us see anything until it is finished.”

“The ultimate auteur, huh? That is impressive. More than that, it’s cool.”

Aurélien chuckled. “No, it’s a question of — what do you say? — faute de mieux.”

“I couldn’t have put it better myself. Look, Aurélien, I’d like you to meet somebody, a friend of mine at a studio. Can I fix that up? I think it would be mutually beneficial.”

“Sure. If you like.”

KAISER PREVOST. I have a theory about this town, this place, about the way it works: it operates best when people go beyond the bounds of acceptable behavior. You reach a position, a course of action suggests itself, and you say, “This makes me morally uncomfortable,” or “This will constitute a betrayal of friendship.” In any other walk of life you withdraw, you rethink. But my theory instead goes like this: make it your working maxim. When you find yourself in a position of normative doubt, then that is the sign to commit. My variation on this theory is that the really successful people go one step further. They find themselves in this moral gray area, they move right on into the black. Look at Vincent Bandine.

I knew I was doing the right thing with Aurélien No because I had determined not to tell my boss. Sheldon started ArtFocus after ten years at ICM. It was going well but it’s clear that the foundations are giving. Two months ago we lost Larry Swiftsure. Last Saturday I get a call from Sheldon: Donata Vail has walked to CAA. His own Donata. He was weeping and was looking for consolation, which I hope I provided. Under these circumstances it seemed to me at best morally dubious that I should go behind his back and try to set up a deal for Aurélien at Alcazar. I was confident it was the only route to take.

The gun idea persisted, it nagged at Aurélien. He talked about it with Bertrand, who thought it was an amusing notion.

“A gun, why not? Pam-pam-pam-pam.”

“Could you get me one? A handgun?” Aurélien asked. “Maybe one of those guys you know …”

“A prop gun? Or a real one?”

“Oh, I think it should be real. Don’t tell Delphine, though.”

The next day Bertrand showed Aurélien a small scarred automatic. It cost five hundred dollars. Aurélien did not question him about its provenance.

He reshot the end of Nathalie’s levée. Nathalie, dressed, is about to leave her room, her hand is on the doorknob. She pauses, turns and goes to a dresser, from whose top drawer she removes the gun. She checks the clip and places it in her fringed suede shoulder bag. She leaves.

He and Delphine had a prolonged debate about whether they should reshoot the entire walk to the restaurant. Delphine thought it was pointless. How, she argued, would the audience know if the gun was in her shoulder bag or not? But you would know, Aurélien countered, and everything might change. Delphine maintained that she would walk the same way whether she had a gun in her bag or not; also they had been in Los Angeles for three weeks and she was growing bored; Le Destin had been filmed in five days. A compromise was agreed: they would only reshoot the pizzeria sequence. Aurélien went off to negotiate another night’s filming.

BOB BERGER. I hate to admit it but I was grateful to Kaiser Prevost when he brought the Nathalie X project to me. As I told him, I had admired Aurélien No’s work for some years and was excited and honored at the possibility of setting up his first English-language film. More to the point, the last two films I exec’d at Alcazar had done me no favors: Disintegrator had only grossed 13 before they stopped tracking and Sophomore Nite II had gone straight to video. I liked the idea of doing something with more art quality and with a European kind of angle. I asked Kaiser to get a script to me soonest and I raised the project at our Monday morning staff meeting. I said I thought it would be a perfect vehicle for Lanier Cross. Boy, did that make Vincent sit up. Dirty old toad (he’s my uncle).

KAISER PREVOST. I’ll tell you one fact about Vincent Bandine. He has the cleanest teeth and the healthiest gums in Hollywood. Every morning a dental nurse comes to his house and flosses and cleans his teeth for him. Every morning, 365 days a year. That’s what I call class. Have you any idea how much that must cost?

Kaiser Prevost thought he detected an unsettled quality about Aurélien as he drove him to the meeting at Alcazar. Aurélien was frowning as he looked about him. The day was perfect, the air clear, the colors ideally bright; more than that, he was going to a deal meeting at a major minor studio, or minor major depending on who you were talking to. Usually in these cases the anticipation in the car would be heady, palpable. Aurélien just made clicking noises in his mouth and fiddled with the beads on the end of his dreadlocks. Prevost told him about Alcazar Films, their money base, their ten-picture slate, their deals or potential deals with Goldie, Franklin Dean, Joel, Demi, Carlo Sancarlo and ItalFilm. The names seemed to make no impact.

As they turned up Coldwater to go over into the valley Prevost finally had to ask if everything was all right.

“There’s a slight problem,” Aurélien admitted. “Delphine has left.”

“That’s too bad,” Prevost said, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice. “Gone back to France?”

“I don’t know. She’s left with Bertrand.”

“Bitch, man.”

“We still have the whole last scene to reshoot.”

“Listen, Aurélien, relax. One thing you learn about working in this town. Everything can be fixed. Everything.”

“How can I finish without Delphine?”

“Have you ever heard of Lanier Cross?”

VINCENT BANDINE. My nephew has two sterling qualities: he’s dumb and he’s eager to please. He’s a good-looking kid too and that helps, no doubt about it. Sometimes, sometimes, he gets it right. Sometimes he has a sense for the popular mood. When he started talking about this “Destiny of Nathalie” film I thought he was way out of his depth until he mentioned the fact that Lanier Cross would be buck naked for the first thirty minutes. I said get the French guy in, tie him up, get him together with Lanier. She’ll go for that. She’ll go for the French part. If the No fellow won’t play, get the Englishman in, what’s his name, Tim Pascal, he’ll do it. He’ll do anything I tell him.

I have a theory about this town: there’s too much respect for art. That’s where we make all our mistakes, all of them. But if that’s a given, then I’m prepared to work with it once in a while. Especially if it’ll get me Lanier Cross nekkid.

MICHAEL SCOTT GEHN. When I heard that Aurélien No was doing a deal with Vincent Bandine at Alcazar, I was both suicidal and oddly proud. If you’d asked me where was the worst home possible for a remake of Nathalie X, I’d have said Alcazar straight off. But that’s what heartens me about this burg, this place we fret and fight in. I have a theory about this town: they all talk about the “business,” the “industry,” how hard-nosed and bottom-line-obsessed they are, but it’s not true. Or rather not the whole truth. Films of worth are made and I respect the place for it. God, I even respected Vincent Bandine for it and I never thought those words would ever issue from my mouth. We shouldn’t say: look at all the crap that gets churned out, instead we should be amazed at the good films that do emerge from time to time. There is a heart here and it’s still beating even though the pulse is kind of thready.

Aurélien was impressed with the brutal economy of Bob Berger’s office. A black ebony desk sat in the middle of a charcoal gray carpet. Two large black leather sofas were separated by a thick sheet of glass resting on three sharp cones. On one wall were two black and white photographs of lily trumpets and on another was an African mask. There was no evidence of work or the tools of work apart from the long, flattened telephone on his desk. Berger himself was wearing crushed banana linen, he was in his mid-twenties, tall and deeply tanned.

Berger shook Aurélien’s hand warmly, his left hand gripping Aurélien’s forearm firmly as if he were a drowning man about to be hauled from a watery grave. He drew Aurélien to one of the leather sofas and sat him upon it. Prevost slid down beside him. A great variety of drinks were offered though Aurélien’s choice of beer caused some consternation. Berger’s assistant was dispatched in search of one. Prevost and Berger’s decaf espressos arrived promptly.

Prevost gestured at the mask. “Home sweet home, eh, Aurélien?”

“Excuse me?”

“I love African art,” Berger said. “What part of Africa are you from?”

“Kiq.”

“Right,” Berger said.

There was a short silence.

“Oh. Congratulations,” Berger said.

“Excuse me?”

“On the prize. Prix d’Or. Well deserved. Kaiser, have we got a print of Nathalie X?”

“We’re shipping it over from Paris. It’ll be here tomorrow.”

“It will?” Aurélien said, a little bemused.

“Everything can be fixed, Aurélien.”

“I want Lanier to see it. And Vincent.”

“Bob, I don’t know if it’s really Vincent’s scene.”

“He has to see it. OK, after we sign Lanier.”

“I think that would be wise, Bob.”

“I want to see it again, I must say. Extraordinary piece.”

“You’ve seen it?” Aurélien said.

“Yeah. At Cannes, I think. Or possibly Berlin. Have we got a script yet, Kaiser?”

“There is no script. Extant.”

“We’ve got to get a synopsis. A treatment at least. Mike’ll want to see something on paper. He’ll never let Lanier go otherwise.”

“Shit. We need a goddamn writer, then,” Prevost said.

“Davide?” Berger said into the speakerphone. “We need a writer. Get Matt Friedrich.” He turned to Aurélien. “You’ll like him. One of the old school. What?” He listened to the phone again and sighed. “Aurélien, we’re having some trouble tracking down your beer. What do you say to a Dr Pepper?”

BOB BERGER. I have a theory about this town, this place. You have people in powerful executive positions who are, to put it kindly, very ordinary-looking types. I’m not talking about intellect, I’m talking about looks. The problem is these ordinary-looking people control the lives of individuals with sensational genetic advantages. That’s an unbelievably volatile mix, I can tell you. And it cuts both ways; it can be very uncomfortable. It’s fine for me, I’m a handsome guy, I’m in good shape. But for most of my colleagues … It’s the source of many of our problems. That’s why I took up golf.

LANIER CROSS. Tolstoy said: “Life is a tartine de merde that we are obliged to consume daily.”

“This is for me?” Aurélien said, looking at the house, its landscaped, multileveled sprawl, the wide maw of its vast garage.

“You can’t stay down by the airport,” Prevost said. “Not anymore. You can shoot in Westchester but you can’t live there.”

A young woman emerged from the front door. She had short chestnut hair, a wide white smile and was wearing a spandex leotard and heavy climbing boots.

“This is Nancy, your assistant.”

“Hi. Good to meet you, Aurélien. Did I say that right?”

“Aurélien.”

“Aurélien?”

“It’s not important.”

“The office is in back of the tennis court. It’s in good shape.”

“Look, I got to fly, Aurélien. You’re meeting Lanier Cross 7:30 a.m. at the Hamburger Heaven on the Shore. Nancy’ll fix everything up.”

To his surprise Kaiser Prevost then embraced him. When they broke apart Aurélien thought he saw tears in his eyes.

“We’ll fucking show them, man, we’ll fucking show them. Onward and upward, way to fucking go.”

“Any news of Delphine?”

“Who? No. Nothing yet. Any problems, call me, Aurélien. Twenty-four hours a day.”

MATT FRIEDRICH. Le Destin de Nathalie X was not as boring as I had expected, but then I was expecting terminal boredom. I was bored, sure, but it was nice to see Paris again. That’s the great thing they’ve got going for them, French films, they carry this wonderful cargo of nostalgic Francophilia for all non-French audiences. Pretty girl too, easy on the eye. I never thought I could happily watch a girl drink herself drunk in a French café, but I did. It was not a wasted hour and a half.

It sure freaked out Prevost and Berger, though. “Extraordinary,” Prevost said, clearly moved, “extraordinary piece.” Berger mused awhile before announcing, “That girl is a fox.” “Michael Scott Gehn thinks it’s a masterpiece,” I said. They agreed, vehemently. It’s one of my tricks: when you don’t know what to say, when you hated it or you’re really stuck and anything qualified won’t pass muster, use someone else’s praise. Make it up if you have to. It’s infallible, I promise.

I asked them how long they wanted the synopsis to be: sentence length or half a page. Berger said it had to be over forty pages, closely spaced, so people would be reluctant to read it. “We already have coverage,” he said, “but we need a document.” “Make it as surreal and weird as you like,” Prevost said, handing me the videocassette. “That’s the whole point.”

We walked out into the Alcazar lot and went in search of our automobiles. “When’s he meeting Lanier?” Berger said. “Tomorrow morning. She’ll love him, Bob,” Prevost said. “It’s a done deal.” Berger gestured at the heavens. “Bountiful Jehovah,” he said. “Get me Lanier.”

I looked at these two guys, young enough to be my sons, as they crouched into their sleek, haunchy cars under a tallow moon, fantasizing loudly, belligerently, about this notional film, the deals, the stars, and I felt enormous pity for them. I have a theory about this town: our trouble is we are at once the most confident and the most insecure people in the world. We seem bulging with self-assurance, full of loud-voiced swagger, but in reality we’re terrified, or we hate ourselves, or we’re all taking happy pills of some order or another, or seeing shrinks, or getting counseled by fakirs and shamans, or fleeced by a whole gallimaufry of frauds and mountebanks. This is the Faustian pact — or should I say this is the Faust deal — you have to make in order to live and work here: you get it all, sure, but you get royally fucked up in the process. That’s the price you pay. It’s in the contract.

Aurélien No was directed to Lanier Cross’s table in the dark rear angles of the Hamburger Heaven. Another man and a woman were sitting with her. Aurélien shook her thin hand. She was beautiful, he saw, but so small, a child-woman, the musculature of a twelve-year-old with the sexual features of an adult.

She introduced the others, an amiable, grinning, broad-shouldered youngster and a lean crop-haired woman in her forties with a fierce strong face.

“This is my husband,” she said. “Kit Vermeer. And this is Naomi Tashourian. She’s a writer we work with.”

“We love your work,” Kit said.

“Beautiful film,” echoed Lanier.

“You’ve seen it?” Aurélien said.

“We saw it two hours ago,” Lanier said.

Aurélien looked at his watch: Nancy had made sure he was punctual—7:30 a.m.

“I called Berger, said I had to see it before we met.”

“We tend to sleep in the day,” Kit said. “Like bats.”

“Like lemurs,” Lanier said. “I don’t like bats.”

“Like lemurs.”

“It’s a beautiful film,” Lanier said. “That’s why we wanted to meet with you.” She reached up and unfastened a large plastic bulldog clip on the top of her head and uncoiled a great dark glossy hank of hair a yard long. She pulled and tightened it, screwing it up, winding it around her right hand, piling it back on the top of her head before she refastened it in position with the clip. Everyone remained silent during this operation.

“That’s why we wanted you to meet Naomi.”

“This is a remake, right?” Naomi said.

“Yes. I think so.”

“Excellent,” Lanier said. “I know Kit wants to put something to you. Kit?”

Kit leaned across the table. “I want to play the waiter,” he said.

Aurélien thought before answering. “The waiter is only in the film for about two minutes, right at the end.”

“Which is why we thought you should meet Naomi.”

“The way I see it,” Naomi said, “is that Nathalie has been in a relationship with the waiter. That’s why she goes to the restaurant. And we could see, in flashback, you know, their relationship.”

“I think it could be extraordinary, Aurélien,” Lanier said.

“And I know that because of our situation, I and Lanier, our marital situation,” Kit added, “we could bring something extraordinary to that relationship. And beautiful.”

Lanier and Kit kissed each other, briefly but with some passion, before resuming the argument in favor of the flashback. Aurélien ordered some steak and french fries as they fleshed out the relationship between Nathalie X and her waiter-lover.

“And Naomi would write this?” Aurélien asked.

“Yes,” Lanier said. “I’m not ready to work with another writer just yet.”

“I think Bob Berger has another writer — Matt Friedrich.”

“What’s he done?” Kit said.

“We have to let Matt go, Aurélien,” Lanier said. “You shouldn’t drink beer this early in the morning.”

“Why not?”

“I’m an alcoholic,” Kit said. “It’s the thin edge of the wedge, believe me.”

“Could you guys leave me alone with Aurélien?” Lanier said.

They left.

LANIER CROSS. I have a theory about this town: the money doesn’t matter. THE MONEY DOESN’T MATTER. Everybody thinks it’s about the money but they’re wrong. They think it’s only because of the money that people put up with the godawful shit that’s dumped on them. That there can be only one possible reason why people are prepared to be so desperately unhappy. Money. Not so. Consider this: everybody who matters in this town has more than enough money. They don’t need any more money. And I’m not talking about the studio heads, the top directors, the big stars, the people with obscene amounts. There are thousands of people in this town, possibly tens of thousands, who are involved in movies who have more money than is reasonably acceptable. So it’s not about money, it can’t be, it’s about something else. It’s about being at the center of the world.

“She loved you,” Kaiser Prevost said. “She’s all over you like a rash.”

“Any news of Delphine?”

“Who? Ah, no. What did you say to her, to Lanier? Bob called, she’ll do it for nothing. Well, half her normal fee. Sensational idea about Kit Vermeer. Excellent. Why didn’t I think of that? Maybe that’s what swung it.”

“No, it was her idea. How are we going to finish the film without Delphine?”

“Aurélien. Please. Forget Delphine Drelle. We have Lanier Cross. We fired Friedrich, we got Tashourian writing the flashback. We’re in business, my son, in business.”

NAOMI TASHOURIAN. I have a theory about this town, this place. Don’t be a woman.

Aurélien sat in the cutting room with Barker Lear, an editor, as they ran what existed of Seeing Through Nathalie on the Moviola.

Barker, a heavy man with a grizzled ginger goatee, watched Delphine sit down at the pizzeria and order a beer. She drank it down and ordered another, then the sound boom, which had been bobbing erratically in and out of frame for the last few minutes, fell fully into view and the screen went black.

Barker turned and looked at Aurélien, who was frowning and tapping his teeth with the end of a pencil.

“That’s some film,” Barker said. “Who’s the girl, she’s extraordinary.”

“Delphine Drelle.”

“She a big star in France?”

“No.”

“Sorta hypnotic effect, she has …” He shrugged. “Shame about the boom.”

“Oh, I don’t worry about that sort of thing,” Aurélien said. “It adds to the verisimilitude.”

“I don’t follow.”

“You’re meant to know it’s a film. That’s why the end works so well.”

“So what happens in the end? You’ve still got to shoot it, right?”

“Yes. I don’t know what happens. Neither does Delphine.”

“You don’t say?”

“She gets drunk, you see. We watch her getting drunk. We don’t cut away. We don’t know what she might do. That’s what makes it so exciting — that’s ‘the destiny of Nathalie X.’ ”

“I see … So, ah, what happened at the end of the first film?”

“She goes to the café, she drinks six or seven beers very quickly, and I can see she’s quite drunk. She orders another drink and when the waiter brings it she throws it in his face.”

“You don’t say? Then what?”

“They have a fight. Delphine and the waiter. They really hit each other. It’s fantastic. Delphine, she’s had this training, self-defense. She knees this guy in the couilles. Boff!”

“Fascinating.”

“He falls over. She collapses, crying, she turns to me, swears at me. Runs off into the night. The end. It’s amazing.”

Barker rubbed his beard, thinking. He glanced at Aurélien covertly.

“Going to do the same thing here?”

“No, no. It’s got to be different for the USA, for Hollywood. That’s why I gave her the gun.”

“Is it a real gun?”

“Oh yes. Otherwise what would be the point?”

BARKER LEAR. I definitely had him for a wacko at first, but after I spent an afternoon with him, talking to him, it seemed to me he really knew what he was doing. He was a real calm guy, Aurélien. He had his own vision, didn’t worry about other people, what other people might think of him. And it was the easiest editing job I ever did. Long long takes. Lot of handheld stuff. The walk had a few reverses, a few mid shots, dolly shots. And the film was kind of exciting, I have to admit, and I was really quite disappointed that he still hadn’t shot the end. This girl Delphine, with this crazy blond fringe over her eyes, there was definitely something wild about her. I mean, who knows, once she got loaded, what she might have done. Maybe Aurélien wasn’t a wacko, but she definitely was.

You know, I have a theory about this town, this place. I’ve been working here for twenty-five years and I’ve seen them all. In this town you have very, very clever people and very, very wacko people, and the problem is, and that’s what makes this place different, our special problem is the very clever people have to work with the very wacko people. They have to, they can’t help it, it’s the nature of the job. That doesn’t happen other places for one simple reason — clever and wacko don’t mix.

Aurélien stood by the pool with Nancy enjoying the subdued play of morning light on the water. Today Nancy’s hair was white blond and she wore a tutu over her leotard and cowboy boots with spurs. She handed him a pair of car keys and an envelope with a thousand dollars in it.

“That’s the new rental car. Celica OK? And there’s your per diem. And you’ve got dinner with Lanier Cross at 6:30.”

“6:30 p.m.?”

“Ah, yeah … She can make it 6:00 if you prefer. She asked me to tell you it will be vegetarian.”

“What are all those men doing? Is it some kind of military exercise?”

“Those are the gardeners. Shall I make them go away?”

“No, it’s fine.”

“And Tim Pascal called.”

“Who’s he?”

“He’s an English film director. He has several projects in development at Alcazar. He wanted to know if you wanted to lunch or drink or whatever.”

The doorbell rang. Aurélien strode across the several levels of his cool white living room to answer it, and as he did so the bell rang twice again. It was Delphine.

KAISER PREVOST. I have a theory about this town; it doesn’t represent the fulfillment of the American dream, it represents the fulfillment of an American reality. It rewards relentless persistence, massive stamina, ruthlessness and the ability to live with grotesque failure. Look at me: I am a smallish guy, 138 pounds, with pretty severe myopia, and near average academic qualifications. But I have a personable manner and an excellent memory and a good head of hair. I will work hard and I will take hard decisions and I have developed the thickest of thick skins. With these attributes in this town nothing can stop me. Or those like me. We are legion. We know what they call us but we don’t care. We don’t need contacts, we don’t need influence, we don’t need talent, we don’t need cosmetic surgery. That’s why I love this place. It allows us to thrive. That’s why when I heard Aurélien had never showed for dinner with Lanier Cross, I didn’t panic. People like me take that kind of awful crisis in their stride.

Aurélien turned over and gently kissed Delphine’s right breast. She stubbed out her cigarette and hunched into him.

“This house is incredible, Aurélien. I like it here.”

“Where’s Holbish?”

“You promised me you wouldn’t mention him again. I’m sorry, Aurélien, I don’t know what made me do it.”

“No, I’m just curious.”

“He’s gone to Seattle.”

“Well, we can manage without him. Are you ready?”

“Of course, it’s the least I can do. What about the pizzeria?”

“I was given a thousand dollars’ cash today. I knew it would come in useful.”

MATT FRIEDRICH. I have to admit I was hoping for the Seeing Through Nathalie rewrite. When Bob Berger fired me and said that Naomi Tashourian was the new writer, it hurt for a while. It always does, no matter how successful you are. But in my case I was due a break and I thought Nathalie was it. I’ve missed out on my last three Guild arbitrations and a Lanier Cross film would have helped, however half-baked, however art-house. Berger said they would honor the fee for the synopsis I did (obfuscation takes on new meaning), but I guess the check is still in the post. But, I do not repine, as a great English novelist once said, I just get on with the job.

I have a theory about this town, this Spielraum where we dream and dawdle: one of our problems — perhaps it’s the problem — is that here ego always outstrips ability. Always. That applies to everyone: writers, directors, actors, heads of production, d-boys and unit runners. It’s our disease, our mark of Cain. When you have success here you think you can do anything, and that’s the great error. The success diet is too rich for our digestive systems: it poisons us, addles the brain. It makes us blind. We lose our self-knowledge. My advice to all those who make it is this: take the job you would have done if the film had been a flop. Don’t go for the big one, don’t let those horizons recede. Do the commercial, the TV pilot, the documentary, the three-week rewrite, the character role or whatever it was you had lined up first. Do that job and then maybe you can reach for the forbidden fruit, but at least you’ll have your feet on the ground.

“Kaiser?”

“Bob?”

“He’s not at the house, Kaiser.”

“Shit.”

“He’s got to phone her. He’s got to apologize.”

“No. He’s got to lie.”

“She called Vincent.”

“Fuck. The bitch.”

“That’s how bad she wants to do it. I think it’s a good sign.”

“Where is that African bastard? I’ll kill him.”

“Nancy says the French babe showed.”

“Oh, no. No, fuckin’ no!”

“It gets worse, Kaiser. Vincent told me to call Tim Pascal.”

“Who the fuck’s he?”

“Some English director. Lanier wants to meet with him.”

“Who’s his agent?”

“Sheldon … Hello? Kaiser?”

GEORGE MALINVERNO. I got a theory about this town, this place: everybody likes pizza. Even the French. We got to know them real well, I guess. They came back every night, the French. The tall black guy, the ratty one and the blond girl. Real pretty girl. Every night they come. Every night they eat pizza. Every night she ties one on. Everybody likes pizza. [Bitter laugh] Everybody. Too bad I didn’t think of it first, huh?

They film one night. And the girl, she’s steaming. Then, I don’t know, something goes wrong and we don’t see them for a while. Then he comes back. Just the black guy, Aurélien and the girl. He says, can they film, one night, a thousand bucks. I say for sure. So he sets up the sound and he sets up the camera behind the bushes. You know it’s not a disturbance, exactly. I never see anybody make a film like this before. A thousand bucks, it’s very generous. So the girl she walks up, she takes a seat, she orders beer and keeps on drinking. Soon she’s pretty stewed. Aurélien sits behind the bushes, just keeps filming. Some guy tries to pick her up, puts his hand on the table, like, leans over, she takes a book of matches, like that one, and does something to the back of his hand with the corner. I couldn’t see what she did, but the guy gasps with pain, shudders like this, just backs off.

Then we get a big party in, birthday party, they’d already booked, fourteen people. She sits there drinking and smoking, Aurélien’s filming. Then we bring the cake out of the kitchen, candles all lit. Whenever there’s a birthday we get Chico to sing. Chico, the little waiter, tubby guy, wanted to be an opera singer. Got a fine strong voice. He’s singing “Happy Birthday to You”—he’s got a kind of drawn-out, elaborate way of singing it. Top of his voice, molto vibrato, you know. Next thing I know the girl’s on her feet with a fuckin’ gun in her hand, screaming in French. Nobody can hear because Chico’s singing his balls off. I tear out from behind the bar, but I’m too late. POW. First shot blows the cake away. BAM. Second one gets Chico in the thigh. Flesh wound, thank God. I charge her to the ground, Roberto jumps on top. We wrestle the gun away. She put up quite a fight for a little thing. Did something to my shoulder too, she twisted it in some way, never been the same since. Aurélien got the whole thing on film. I hear it looks great.

Aurélien sat outside the Alcazar screening room with Kaiser Prevost and Bob Berger. Berger combed and recombed his hair, he kept smelling his comb, smelling his fingertips. He asked Prevost to smell his hair. Prevost said it smelled of shampoo. Prevost went to the lavatory for the fourth time.

“Relax,” Aurélien said to them both. “I’m really pleased with the film. I couldn’t be more pleased.”

Berger groaned. “Don’t say that, don’t say that.”

“If he likes it,” Kaiser said, “we’re in business. Lanier will like it, for sure, and Aurélien will apologize. Won’t you, Aurélien? Of course you will. No problem. Lanier loved him. Lanier loved you, didn’t she, Aurélien?”

“Why are we worried about Lanier?” Aurélien said. “Delphine came back. We finished the film.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Bob Berger.

“Don’t worry, Bob,” Kaiser said. “Everything can be fixed.”

Vincent Bandine emerged from the screening room.

Aurélien stood up. “What do you think?”

VINCENT BANDINE. I believe in candor. I have a theory about this town, this place: we don’t put enough stock in candor. I am into candor in a big way. So I take Aurélien aside, gently, and I say, “Aurélien, or whatever your name is, I think your film is goatshit. I think it’s a disgusting boring piece of Grade A manure. I wouldn’t give the sweat off my balls for your goatshit film.” That’s what I said, verbatim. And I have to give it to the kid, he just stood there and looked at me, sort of a slight smile on his face. Usually when I’m this candid they’re in deep shock, or weeping, or vomiting by now. And he looks at me and says, “I can’t blame you for thinking like this. You’re not a man of culture, so I can’t blame you for thinking like this.” And he walks. He walks out jauntily. I should have had his fucking legs broken. I’ve got the biggest collection of Vuillard paintings on the West Coast of America. I should have had his fucking legs broken. We had to pay the waiter fifty grand not to press charges, keep the Alcazar name out of things. The girl went to a clinic for three weeks to dry out … Aurélien No. Not a man of culture, eh?

KIT VERMEER. Ah, Lanier took it badly. I don’t think that. Do you mind? Thank you. Bats and lemurs, man, wow, they didn’t get a look in. Bats and lemurs. Story of my life. Weltanschauung, that’s what I’m up for. No, Weltschmerz. That’s my bag. Bats and lemurs. Why not owls and armadillos? No, I’m not looking at you, sir, or talking to you. Forsooth. Fuckin’ nerd. Wank in a bath, that’s what an English friend of mine calls them. What a wank in a bath. Owls and armadillos.

MATT FRIEDRICH. Aurélien came to see me before he left, which was gracious of him, I thought, especially for a film director, and he told me what had happened. I commiserated and told him other sorry stories about this town, this place. But he needed no consoling. “I enjoyed my visit,” he said. “No, I did. And I made the film. It was a curious but interesting experience.”

“It’s just a dance,” I think I remember saying to him. “It’s just a dance we have to do.”

He laughed. He found that funny.

END ROLLER

BOB BERGER

is working from home,

where he is writing several screenplays

DELPHINE DRELLE

plays the character “Suzi de la Tour” in NBC’s Till Darkness Falls

KAISER PREVOST

works for the investment bank Harbinger Cohen in New York City

MARIUS NO

is in his first year at l’Ecole Supérieure des Etudes Cinématographiques