The Movie

by Patti Beckman

  She had no answer for that. If she denied it, she would be lying. Right now, she desperately wanted him to take her—right here in the sand with the surf licking at their naked bodies and the stars overhead the canopy above their marriage bed of sand.

  Instead, almost roughly, he thrust her away from him. She was shaken, her knees barely able to support her. Her heart was pounding harder than the surf around her feet. Kirk glared at her. “Remember that when you’re talking to your lawyer about a divorce!” And he turned and stalked off into the darkness.

  She crumpled to the beach, sobbing with humiliation and despair.

  * * * * * * *

  Natalie was glad that she had to fly to New York the following week for talk show interviews. It gave her a brief respite from the emotional turmoil Kirk’s return had caused. She took the sunset flight out of Los Angeles. Speeding across the continent, she wrestled with the problem of what to do about her situation. By the time her trip was over she had decided on a compromise. She was not going to accept a part in the film, but she would use her influence with the studio to get backing for Kirk’s film. She owed that much to her friends and for the past she had shared with Kirk.

  Back in Los Angeles, she phoned the Dentmens. “Bill, I’ve given a lot of thought to this situation all the way to the East Coast and back and I’ve made a decision. I simply cannot accept a part in Kirk’s picture. But I will see if I can talk the studio into taking on the project. There’s a young vice-president at Continental Films who might go for it. His name is Jim Hanley. He brought the Never Tomorrow property to the studio and all indications are that it’s going to make Continental a pile of money. So right now Jim carries a lot of weight down there. If I can sell him on the project he might be able to get Sam Kasserman, the studio head, to take it on. At least it’s worth a try.”

  Bill’s voice registered his disappointment. “We’ve all been hoping you’d accept the role, Natalie. It’s perfect for you. We want you on the team. Is there anything I can say that would make you reconsider?”

  “Sorry. My mind is made up. You can find someone else to do the part. The important thing is to get studio backing, right?”

  “Well, of course that’s essential if we’re going to go into production,” Bill admitted. “Despite the changes that have come to Hollywood it’s still the major studios who control the industry. Even if Kirk could get financing from some other source, he still needs the distribution only a major studio can provide. No need to tell you that. But we were hoping we could all be in this together.”

  “I just can’t deal with it, Bill. But I will call Jim Hanley first thing in the morning. Now we’re going to need more than a synopsis. Can you and Sally work up a story treatment for me to show him?”

  “Sure, we’ll get to work on it right away.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Natalie, there’s going to be an executive story conference this afternoon. I think you’d better come down.”

  Natalie had taken the story treatment of Kirk’s property to Jim Hanley a week ago. She’d had no response from him until her phone rang this morning.

  “What did you think of the story?” Natalie asked.

  “Well, it may have potential,” the vice-president hedged.

  “Did you show it to Sam Kasserman?”

  “Yes. It’s been on his desk for several days.”

  “Has he said how he feels about it?”

  Hanley’s response was guarded. “He hasn’t said, Natalie. But he’s bringing it up in the conference this afternoon. That’s why I thought you might want to be there. Sam loves you. We all do. Sam will want to talk to you personally about it. He wants to hold the meeting at three this afternoon. Okay?”

  That was all she could get out of the studio executive at that point.

  Shortly before three that afternoon, Natalie pulled into the lot of Continental Films. She found a parking place near the administration buildings. She glanced around at the buildings housing the sound stages, the equipment storage units, the outdoor sets, the commissary, all the elements of a studio lot that made up its own community. Then she walked to the main building where the office of the studio president was located.

  All of the executive power of the studio was gathered in Sam Kasserman’s office that afternoon, vice-presidents, various department heads, secretaries. When Natalie entered the large, mahogany-paneled room, the men jumped to their feet. She was welcomed with the eager homage and affection due a queen. Kasserman hurried around from behind his desk to embrace her and kiss her cheek. “Natalie, my darling. How sweet of you to come down.” He led her to a comfortable, plush chair beside his desk and seated her with a flourish. Then he resumed his place behind his desk. Natalie thought with amusement that the meeting had the overtones of a royal court. Kasserman, the studio head, was on his throne behind his massive desk. Around the room in various levels of importance were the knights, the lords and the vassals of his kingdom.

  From across the room, Jim Hanley smiled and nodded a greeting. At thirty, Hanley had already reached the level of senior vice-president in charge of physical production. On his shoulders rested the enormous, complex nuts and bolts of motion picture production. It was Hanley’s office that procured the automobiles, furniture, horses, guns, lumber, airplanes—all the hardware that was the raw material of movie sets. Then he managed somehow to get all the material to the right location when it was needed. Details of transportation for camera crews, production staffs and actors were Hanley’s responsibility. An even greater responsibility, one upon which his job depended, was monitoring films in production and keeping a zealous lid on expenses.

  Natalie had decided to show Kirk’s story treatment to Hanley first for diplomatic reasons. She could have taken the script directly to Sam Kasserman. But by showing it first to Jim Hanley she had flattered him and had given him the opportunity to make a professional score if the film turned out to be a hit. Thus, she already had one executive at least tentatively on her side. She was very much aware of the powerful egos involved in the studio hierarchy and the constant, ongoing struggle for acclaim and recognition. Getting credit for a movie success was as important for a studio executive as an Academy nomination to an actress. It had been a feather in Hanley’s cap that he brought the Never Tomorrow property to the attention of the studio. It was only natural that he would be eager to add another successful property to his list. It was that kind of thing that caught the attention of the real power behind the throne—the corporate owners of the studio in New York.

  Sam Kasserman interrupted her thoughts. “Well, Natalie, darling, before we say anything else, I have to tell you that it looks like we got a winner in Never Tomorrow. The first week’s rental figures have come in from all over the country and let me say that they look most encouraging.”

  White-haired and deeply tanned, Kasserman was a distinguished man in his early sixties. He was always impeccably dressed. Today his eyes were sparkling and he rubbed his hands together as he talked. Obviously he was in a jubilant mood over the success of Continental’s latest movie. That was a strike in favor of Kirk’s story, she thought; she had caught Kasserman in a good mood.

  As head of a large motion picture studio, Sam Kasserman held one of the most difficult jobs in Hollywood. His responsibilities were staggering. He had to try and guess a year and more in advance the fickle taste trends of film audiences; to choose from hundreds of possibilities the few productions that could be turned into successful motion pictures; to select the right director and producer; to evaluate how a picture was progressing in mid-production and if it wasn’t progressing well, or running way over budget, what to do about it. It was his job to deal with the bankers who financed the films. He had to deal with temperamental people in a community of swollen and delicate egos. He made a steady stream of decisions about advertising campaigns, about timing releases for distribution not only in the United States but all over the world.

  “That’s real good news,” Natalie sai
d with a smile, replying to his enthusiastic news about her latest film.

  “You did it again, sweetheart,” Sam continued, beaming. “They’re standing in line to see Natalie Brooks. You made the picture.”

  “You’re sweet to say that, Sam,” Natalie replied. “But don’t you think the writers, camera crew, producers, makeup people and all the rest had something to do with it?”

  Kasserman dismissed her show of modesty with a generous wave of his hand. “Sure, we had good people on the film. But you were the star, Natalie.”

  She was not so naïve as to let the studio president’s flattery go to her head. It was part of his role as father image to feed the egos of the people who worked for him. Natalie was sensible enough to know that at the moment she was riding a crest of popularity. But let her appear in a couple of box office duds and her position as a studio queen would come to an end. Suddenly the offers for juicy parts would stop. It would become more difficult to get into Sam’s office. “He’s in conference this morning, Miss Brooks; I’ll have him get back to you,” would become an impersonal secretary’s polite door slam.

  “I guess we timed things pretty good when I suggested you come down about three o’clock,” he said. “We’ve gotten all our other business out of the way so you wouldn’t have to sit through a lot of dull, boring talk that doesn’t concern you, Natalie.”

  His vast, highly polished mahogany desk top was totally bare except for a gold-plated pen-and-pencil set, a picture of his wife and children, an ashtray and a file folder. Now he carefully adjusted the pen-and-pencil set, moved the picture an inch to the left, squared the file folder before him and opened it. He took out the story treatment of Kirk’s film project, looked at the cover, his lips pursed, and put it down. He cleared his throat and swung his executive chair slightly to the left to face Natalie. “Well, Kirk is back from Europe.”

  Natalie nodded, hoping the rush of blood to her cheeks did not show. Until the mention of Kirk’s name, she had been totally cool and reserved.

  “I hope I’m not intruding on your personal life if I say I hope things are working out all right for you, Natalie. What the heck, we’re all family here. I feel just like your father. So I guess I can ask. Have you and Kirk patched things up?”

  “Not exactly,” Natalie said uncomfortably. She knew Sam was putting out feelers to get a handle on where her marriage stood and how she was affected by it. At the moment she was a great asset to Continental Films. She added, “We’re still separated if that’s what you mean.”

  “Too bad. I was hoping things would smooth out for you, Natalie. But maybe it’s for the best.” He shrugged. “That’s something you and Kirk have to work out,” he said as he picked up the manuscript again. “I guess it’s a friendly separation, though. Jim passed along this project of Kirk’s. He said you brought it to him.”

  “Kirk and I are still friends,” Natalie replied, choosing her words carefully. “I read the story and thought it had a lot of potential and that Continental should see it.”

  “Yes. We do appreciate your bringing it down. Of course, we already knew about it. Word gets around. We heard Kirk came back from Europe with a movie he wants to do. This is the first chance I had to read it through.”

  There was a moment of silence. One of the secretaries rustled a paper. An executive scowled at her.

  Natalie asked, “Well, what do you think of the story?”

  Kasserman sat back in his chair, frowning thoughtfully. He pursed his lips, leaned forward, studiously turned the pen-and-pencil set slightly to the left and moved the family picture an inch closer. He picked up the story treatment, held it for a moment, then carefully placed it in the file folder. “The Last Encounter. What can I say? It’s got possibilities.” He nodded. “Yes, I think I can definitely see it as a possibility as the next Natalie Brooks feature. Of course, we’d have to hold close reins on Kirk’s spending. He has a bad reputation for going way over budget—”

  “Just a minute, Sam,” Natalie interrupted. “There’s a little misunderstanding. I don’t plan to accept a part in the film, I was just doing Kirk a favor by asking Continental to consider his proposal.”

  Natalie could feel the startled silence. It was as if the entire room took a sudden, quick breath. Sam Kasserman frowned. “I don’t understand. Natalie, this would be a good film for you. Look, I’ve got to be frank. I don’t have a whole lot of use for Kirk. Nobody is denying the man has a lot of talent. But he’s a problem. That last thing he did, The Two of Us, cost the company a bundle. They’re still screaming about it in New York. But we might overlook the problems I expect we’ll have with Kirk if we can get you in this picture.”

  Natalie studied the expression on Kasserman’s face. He would make a good poker player. Nevertheless, she knew exactly what was going on in his mind. She thought about the complex financial structure behind this modern Hollywood motion picture studio. Its roots were not here in sunny California but in the New York boardroom of the parent corporation, Atlantic Enterprises. Natalie was better acquainted with behind-the-scenes power struggles than many other Hollywood people working in the industry because of her family ties back East. Her great-uncle, Jeffrey Brooks, among other things, was on the board of directors of Atlantic Enterprises. He was one of the financial geniuses who had built the Brooks family fortune through shrewd financial wheeling and dealing. One of Natalie’s early childhood memories was of Uncle Jeffrey taking her down to watch the activity on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange.

  Continental Films was only part of the holdings of the parent conglomerate. Among the other corporations Atlantic Enterprises owned was a recording company, a book publisher and hotels in Atlantic City. They had recently acquired a home computer manufacturing concern for $50 million.

  The late 1960s had been a time of vast change in the movie industry in Hollywood as the old studios originally founded by individuals and partners were taken over by corporate conglomerates, insurance and real estate firms. The power wielded by the moguls since silent film days fell into the hands of corporate lawyers and board chairmen. Still, the making of motion pictures was an esoteric operation not entirely understood by investors and businessmen. They hired people like Sam Kasserman to head the studios, and the industry went on much as before, except that now stars were no longer under long-term contracts to individual studios. Major films were often produced by independent companies who nevertheless turned to the studios for their financing and distribution.

  Through her Great-Uncle Jeffrey, Natalie knew there was an ongoing power struggle between Sam Kasserman here on the West Coast and the president of Atlantic Enterprises in New York, David Clawson. The two men hated each other. It was a battle of giant egos. For the past three years, Continental Films had climbed out of the red to become a profitable enterprise. Last year the studio had shown a $50 million profit. Both men tried to claim credit for the turnaround. If it weren’t for Kasserman’s strong allies on the board of directors of Atlantic Enterprises, he knew Clawson would waste no time getting him fired.

  Natalie knew all those thoughts were going through the studio president’s mind right now, carefully weighing his own position in a deal involving huge sums of money. She felt certain he liked Kirk’s story, saw the tremendous possibilities. But Sam’s position was too tenuous to take a gamble with a director whose last film had been such a disaster.

  “Kirk’s first film, The Home Front, made a lot of money for the studio,” Natalie pointed out.

  “True, honey, but it was a low-budget little movie that happened somehow to click with the young crowd. Nobody expected it to do very much business. It surprised everyone, including Kirk. But this project”—he rustled the story treatment papers—”is something entirely different. This is no low-budget film. Knowing the grand scale Kirk likes to operate on, we’re talking twenty million at least, maybe a lot more. He’ll want to shoot the thing on locations scattered all over the globe. The cost of the special effects alone would be astronom
ical.” He shook his head. “Unless we can count on a big box office name to go with it, like yours, I can’t see any way we could take that kind of a gamble.”

  Natalie sighed. “I’m sorry, Sam. But for personal reasons, which I’m sure you understand, I don’t want to act in a film Kirk is going to direct.”

  Kasserman made a grand gesture. “Okay, we’ll get a different director. We’ll buy the property from Kirk for a flat fee and get you any director you want.”

  Natalie gasped. “You think Kirk would go for a deal like that? What would you give him for the property, a measly $50 thousand? You know Kirk Trammer better than that. He’d laugh in your face.”

  Kasserman raised an eyebrow. “From what I hear, at the moment, fifty grand might look pretty good to Kirk. He’s been broke for the past two years.”

  “There’s only one way anybody is going to do Kirk’s picture,” Natalie said angrily. “He’s going to produce and direct it and he’s going to want a big percentage of ownership—”

  She stopped in mid-sentence. I’m doing it again! she thought, aghast. I’m taking Kirk’s side, fighting for his interests.

  Badly shaken, she gathered up her purse and rose. “I appreciate the time you took to read the material, Sam. If you want to make some kind of deal with Kirk, you can get in touch with him. As far as my acting in the film goes, I’m afraid it’s out of the question.”

  “Well, that’s too bad, Natalie, darling,” Kasserman said, rising. “I’m sure you understand our position. If you change your mind, please contact us.”

  Natalie drove out of the gate of Continental Films feeling depressed and frustrated. She was impatient with herself for becoming this emotionally involved over the matter.

  From the Continental studios, Natalie drove to Special Effects Unlimited, Inc., the independent business Ginny inherited when her father died. Natalie found her cousin on one of the sound stages where a miniature city complete to the tiniest detail was being constructed. “Hi. Do you have time for a coffee break?”