Penzler, Otto Ed v2

  “That’s what I did on ‘The Sidewalks of New York’.”

  “Oh?” Arthur Lewis looked blank. “I guess I didn’t notice that in your credits.” He straightened. “But my point’s the same. Television’s a pressure cooker. A game for people with energy.”

  “Did I need a wheelchair when I came in here?”

  “You’ve lost me.”

  “Energy’s not my problem. I’m full to bursting with the need to work. What matters is, What do you think of my idea?”

  “It’s—“

  The phone rang.

  Arthur Lewis looked relieved. “Let me get back to you.”

  “Of course. I know you’re busy. Thanks for your time.”

  “Hey, anytime. I’m always here and ready for new ideas.” Again he checked his Rolex.

  The phone kept ringing.

  “Take care,” he said.

  “You too.”

  I took my list of credits off his desk.

  The last thing I heard when I left was “No, that old fuck’s wrong for the part. He’s losing his hair. A wig? Get real. The audience can tell the difference. For God’s sake, a hairpiece is death in the ratings.”

  Steve had said to phone him when the meeting was over. But I felt so upset I decided to hell with phoning him and drove up the Pacific Coast Highway toward his place in Malibu. Traffic was terrible—rush hour, Friday evening. For once, though, it had an advantage. After an hour, my anger began to abate enough for me to realise that I wouldn’t accomplish much by showing up unexpectedly in a fit at Steve’s. He’d been loyal. He didn’t need my aggravation. As he’d told me, “I’ve done what I can. Now it’s up to you.” But there wasn’t much I could do if my age and not my talent was how I was judged. Certainly that wasn’t Steve’s fault.

  So I stopped at something called the Pacific Coast Diner and took the advice of a bumper sticker on a car I’d been stuck behind—CHILL OUT. Maybe a few drinks and a meditative dinner would calm me down. The restaurant had umbrella-topped tables on a balcony that looked toward the ocean. I had to wait a half hour, but a Scotch and soda made the time go quickly, and the crimson reflection of the setting sun on the ocean was spectacular.

  Or would have been if I’d been paying attention. The truth was, I couldn’t stop being upset. I had another Scotch and soda, ordered poached salmon, tried to enjoy my meal, and suddenly couldn’t swallow, suddenly felt about as lonely as I’d felt since Doris had died. Maybe the network executives are right, I thought.

  Maybe I am too old. Maybe I don’t know how to relate to a young audience. Maybe it’s time I packed it in.

  “Mort Davidson,” a voice said.

  “Excuse me?” I blinked, distracted from my thoughts.

  My waiter was holding the credit card I’d given him. “Mort Davidson.” He looked at the name on the card, then at me. “The screenwriter?”

  I spared him a bitter “Used to be” and nodded with what I hoped was a pleasant manner.

  “Wow.” He was tall and thin with sandy hair and a glowing tan. His blue eyes glinted. He had the sort of chiselled, handsome face that made me think he was yet another would-be actor. He looked to be about twenty-three. “When I saw your name, I thought, ‘No, it couldn’t be. Who knows how many Mort Davidsons there are? The odds against this being...’ But it is you. The screenwriter.”

  “Guilty,” I managed to joke.

  “I bet I’ve seen everything you ever wrote. I must have watched ‘The Dead of Noon’ twenty-five times. I really learned a lot.”

  “Oh?” I was puzzled. What would my screenplay have taught him about acting?

  “About structure. About pace. About not being afraid to let the characters talk. That’s what’s wrong with movies today. The characters don’t have anything important to say.”

  At once it hit me. He wasn’t a would-be actor.

  “I’m a writer,” he said. “Or trying to be. I mean, I’ve still got a lot to learn. That I’m working here proves what I mean.” The glint went out of his eyes. “I still haven’t sold anything.” His enthusiasm was forced. “But, hey, nothing important is easy. I’ll just keep writing until I crack the market. The boss is... I’d better not keep chattering at you. He doesn’t like it. For sure, you’ve got better things to do than listen to me. I just wanted to say how much I like your work, Mr. Davidson. I’ll bring your credit card right back. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  As he left, it struck me that the speed with which he talked suggested not only energy but insecurity. For all his good looks, he felt like a loser.

  Or maybe I was just transferring my own emotions onto him. This much was definite—getting a compliment was a hell of a lot better than a sharp stick in the eye or the meeting I’d endured.

  When he came back with my credit card, I signed the bill and gave him a generous tip.

  “Thanks, Mr. Davidson.”

  “Hang in there. You’ve got one important thing on your side.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’re young. You’ve got plenty of time to make it.”

  “Unless...”

  I wondered what he meant.

  “Unless I don’t have what it takes.”

  “Well, the best advice I can give you is never doubt yourself.”

  As I left the restaurant and passed beneath hissing arc lamps toward my car, I couldn’t ignore the irony. The waiter had youth but doubted his ability. I had confidence in my ability but was penalised because of my age. Despite the roar of traffic on the Pacific Coast Highway, I heard waves on the beach.

  And that’s when the notion came to me. A practical joke of sorts, like stories you hear about frustrated writers submitting Oscar-winning screenplays, ‘Casablanca’, for example, but the writers change the tide and the characters’ names. The notes they get back from producers as much as say that the screenplays are the lousiest junk the producers ever read. So then the writers tell the trade papers what they’ve done, the point being that they’re trying to prove it doesn’t matter how good a writer you are if you don’t have connections.

  Why not? I thought. It would be worth seeing the look on those bastards’ faces.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Ric Potter.”

  “Short for Richard?”

  “No. For Eric.”

  I nodded. Breaking-the-ice conversation. “The reason I came back is I have something I want to discuss with you, a way that might help your career.”

  His eyes brightened.

  At once, they darkened, as if he thought I might be trying to pick him up.

  “Strictly business,” I said. “Here’s my card. If you want to talk about writing and how to make some money, give me a call.”

  His suspicion persisted, but his curiosity was stronger. “What time?”

  “Eleven tomorrow?”

  “Fine.”

  “Come over. Bring some of your scripts.”

  That was important. I had to find out if he could write or if he was fooling himself. My scheme wouldn’t work unless he had a basic feel for the business. So the next morning, when he arrived exactly on time at my home in the hills above West Hollywood, we swapped: I let him see a script I’d just finished while I sat by the pool and read one of his. I finished around one o’clock. “Hungry?”

  “Starved. Your script is wonderful,” Ric said. “I can’t get over the pace. The sense of reality. It didn’t feel like a story.”

  “Thanks.” I took some tuna salad and Perrier from the refrigerator. “Whole-wheat bread and kosher dills okay? Or maybe you’d rather go to a restaurant.”

  “After working in one every night?” Ric laughed.

  But I could tell that he was marking time, that he was frustrated and anxious to know what I thought of his script. I remembered how I had felt at his age, the insecurity when someone important was reading my work. I got to the point.

  “I like your story,” I said.

  He exhaled.

  “But I don�
�t think it’s executed properly.”

  His cheek muscles tensed.

  “Given what they’re paying A-list actors these days, you have to get the main character on screen as quickly as possible. Your main character doesn’t show up until page fifteen.”

  He sounded embarrassed. “I couldn’t figure out a way to—“

  “And the romantic element is so familiar it’s tiresome. A shower scene comes from a washed-up imagination.”

  That was tough, I knew, but I waited to see how he’d take it. If he turned out to be the sensitive type, I wasn’t going to get anywhere.

  “Yeah. Okay. Maybe I did rely on a lot of other movies I’d seen.”

  His response encouraged me. “The humorous elements don’t work. I don’t think comedy is your thing.”

  He squinted.

  “The ending has no focus,” I continued. “Was your main character right or not? Simply leaving the dilemma up in the air is going to piss off your audience.”

  He studied me. “You said you liked the story.”

  “Right. I did.”

  “Then why do I feel like I’m on the Titanic?”

  “Because you’ve got a lot of craft to learn, and it’s going to take you quite a while to master it. If you ever do. There aren’t any guarantees. The average Guild member earns less than six thousand dollars a year. Writing screenplays is one of the most competitive enterprises in the world. But I think I can help you.”

  “...Why?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “We met just last night. I was your waiter, for God’s sake. Now suddenly I’m in your house, having lunch with you, and you’re saying you want to help me. It can’t be because of the force of my personality. You want something.”

  “Yes, but not what you’re thinking. I told you last night—this is strictly business. Sit down and eat while I tell you how we can both make some money.”

  “This is Ric Potter,” I said. We were at a reception in one of those mansions in the hills near the Hollywood Bowl. Sunset. A string quartet. Champagne. Plenty of movers and shakers. “Fox is very hot on one of his scripts. I think it’ll go for a million.”

  The man to whom I’d introduced Ric was an executive at Warners. He couldn’t have been over thirty. “Oh?”

  “Yeah, it’s got a youth angle.”

  “Oh?” The executive looked Ric up and down, confused, never having heard of him, at the same time worried because he didn’t want to be out of the loop, fearing he ought to have heard of him.

  “If I sound a little proud,” I said, “it’s because I discovered him. I found him last May when I was giving a talk to a young screenwriters’ workshop at the American Film Institute. Ric convinced me to look at some things and... I’m glad I did. My agent’s glad I did.” I chuckled.

  The executive tried to look amused, although he hated like hell to pay writers significant money. For his part, Ric tried to look modest but unbelievably talented, young, young, young, and hot, hot, hot.

  “Well, don’t let Fox tie you up,” the executive told Ric. “Have your agent send me something.”

  “I’ll do that, Mr. Ballard. Thanks,” Ric said.

  “Do I look old enough to be a ‘mister’? Call me Ed.”

  We made the rounds. While all the executives considered me too old to be relevant to their sixteen-to-twenty-five audience, they still had reverence for what they thought of as an institution. Sure, they wouldn’t buy anything from me, but they were more than happy to talk to me. After all, it didn’t cost them any money, and it made them feel like they were part of a community.

  By the time I was through introducing Ric, my rumours about him had been accepted as fact. Various executives from various studios considered themselves in competition with executives from other studios for the services of this hot new young writer who was getting a million dollars a script.

  Ric had driven with me to the reception. On the way back, he kept shaking his head in amazement. “And that’s the secret? I just needed the right guy to give me introductions? To be anointed as a successor?”

  “Not quite. Don’t let their chumminess fool you. They only care if you can deliver.”

  “Well, tomorrow I’ll send them one of my scripts.”

  “No,” I said. “Remember our agreement. Not one of your scripts. One of mine. By Eric Potter.”

  So there it was. The deal Ric and I had made was that I’d give him ten percent of whatever my scripts earned in exchange for his being my front man. For his part, he’d have to take calls and go to meetings and behave as if he’d actually written the scripts. Along the way, we’d inevitably talk about the intent and technique of the scripts, thus providing Ric with writing lessons. All in all, not a bad deal for him.

  Except that he had insisted on fifteen percent.

  “Hey, I can’t go to meetings if I’m working three to eleven at the restaurant,” he’d said. “Fifteen percent. And I’ll need an advance. You’ll have to pay me what I’m earning at the restaurant so I can be free for the meetings.”

  I wrote him a check for a thousand dollars.

  The phone rang, interrupting the climactic speech of the script I was writing. Instead of picking up the receiver, I let my answering machine take it, but I answered anyhow when I heard my agent talking about Ric.

  “What about him, Steve?”

  “Ballard over at Warners likes the script you had me send him. He wants a few changes, but basically he’s happy enough to offer seven hundred and fifty thousand.”

  “Ask for a million.”

  “I’ll ask for nothing.”

  “I don’t understand. Is this a new negotiating tactic?”

  “You told me not to bother reading the script, just to do the kid a favour and send it over to Warners because Ballard asked for it. As you pointed out, I’m too busy to do any reading anyhow. But I made a copy of the script, and for the hell of it, last night I looked it over. Mort, what are you trying to pull? Ric Potter didn’t write that script. You did. Under a different title, you showed it to me a year ago.”

  I didn’t respond.

  “Mort?”

  “I’m making a point. The only thing wrong with my scripts is an industry bias against age. Pretend somebody young wrote them, and all of a sudden they’re wonderful.”

  “Mort, I won’t be a part of this.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s misrepresentation. I’d be jeopardising my credibility as an agent. You know how the clause in the contract reads—the writer guarantees that the script is solely his or her own work. If somebody else was involved, the studio wants to know about it—to protect itself against a plagiarism suit.”

  “But if you tell Ballard I wrote that script, he won’t buy it.”

  “You’re being paranoid, Mort.”

  “Facing facts and being practical. Don’t screw this up.”

  “I told you, I won’t go along with it.”

  “Then if you won’t make the deal, I’ll get somebody else who will.”

  A long pause. “Do you know what you’re saying?”

  “Ric Potter and I need a new agent.”

  I’ll say this for Steve—even though he was furious about my leaving him, he finally swore, for old times’ sake, at my insistence, that he wouldn’t tell anybody what I was doing. He was loyal to the end. It broke my heart to leave him. The new agent I selected knew squat about the arrangement I had with Ric. She believed what I told her—that Ric and I were friends and by coincidence we’d decided simultaneously to get new representation. I could have chosen one of those superhuge agencies like CAA, but I’ve always been uncomfortable when I’m part of a mob and, in this case especially, it seemed to me that small and intimate were essential. The fewer people who knew my business, the better.

  The Linda Carpenter Agency was located in a stone cottage just past the gates to the old Hollywoodland subdivision. Years ago, the ‘land’ part of that subdivision’s sign collapsed. The ‘Hollywood’ part rema
ined, and you see that sign all the time in film clips about Los Angeles. It’s a distance up past houses in the hills. Nonetheless, from outside Linda Carpenter’s stone cottage, you feel that the sign’s looming over you.

  I parked my Audi and got out with Ric. He was wearing sneakers, jeans, and a blue cotton pullover. At my insistence. I wanted his outfit to be self-consciously informal and youthful in contrast with my own mature, conservative slacks and sport coat. When we entered the office, Linda—who’s thirty, with short red hair, and loves to look at gorgeous young men—sat straighter when I introduced Ric. His biceps bulged at the sleeves of his pullover. I was reminded again of how much—with his sandy hair, blue eyes, and glowing tan—he looked like an actor.

  Linda took a moment before she reluctantly shifted her attention away from him, as if suddenly realising that I was in the room. “Good to see you again, Mort. But you didn’t have to come all this way. I could have met you for lunch at Le Dome.”

  “A courtesy visit. I wanted to save you the long drive, not to mention the bill.”

  I said it as if I was joking. The rule is that agents always pick up the check when they’re at a restaurant with clients.

  Linda’s smile was winning. Her red hair seemed brighter. “Anytime. I’m still surprised that you left Steve.” She tactfully didn’t ask what the problem had been. “I promise I’ll work hard for you.”

  “I know you will,” I said. “But I don’t think you’ll have to work hard for my friend here. Ric already has some interest in a script of his over at Warners.”

  “Oh?” Linda raised her elegant eyebrows. “Who’s the executive?”

  “Ballard.”

  “My, my.” She frowned slightly. “And Steve isn’t involved in this? Your ties are completely severed?”

  “Completely. If you want, call him to make sure.” “That won’t be necessary.”