He did not find any points, but he did gather a handful of potsherds which could have been anything from fifty to two thousand years old. They were light-brown clay, glazed or painted a dark brown on the outside. When Harry got back to the crossroads he went into the store where old Mr. Bill Sumner was behind the counter telling stories to Maggie and Jody. Harry lay the pieces of pot on the counter and the old man said, “Well, you seem to have found some of my cooking utensils,” and with a slight twinkle in his old blue eyes he swore to Harry that the fragments were the remains of a terrible crockery battle between Sumner and his wife only last year. “I recall being hit on the head three or four times,” he said to Harry, “and after the first few blows I began to lose track of what particular utensils were being employed.”
Back out in the heat they were almost ready to go. Jack Meltzer, who like Harry had been averaging fifteen hours a day except Sundays when he would lock himself in his motel room and watch pro football all day sipping from a quart of Rebel Yell, was talking to the heavyset special effects man about the clouds of dust he wanted, to match the crash of yesterday. Harry listened for a few moments while the effects man explained that he personally would create the dust-cloud and Jody, inside the wrecked Chevrolet, would be asked to pull a wire that would cause steam to arise from the engine.
Harry moved on over to where Jonathan Bridger was sitting in his canvas chair in the shade of the honeywagon with the costumer, a stocky Italian who had flown in the day after Donald Bitts had gone home, made friends immediately and was now telling Bridger eggplant recipes that were guaranteed to “keep it up.”
“How are you feeling, Johnny?” Harry asked him. Bridger nodded and grinned, and Harry moved along. He had long ago decided that Bridger was a cold fish, but thank God he wasn’t temperamental, just a young Republican who was able to earn excellent sums of money by acting. There really wasn’t anything for Harry to do. He was not a working part of the company, he was only the producer, and now that he had lied, stolen, cheated, wheedled and berated everybody and everything, there was nothing further for him to do but worry, and even the worrying was in far more capable hands with Lew Gargolian, who, even though they had only five or six days of work left, still wore the wrinkles of anxiety on his forehead. But that was his job. Harry’s job here on location was really over until they wrapped the picture, when Harry and Lew would oversee the closing out of the location to see to it that Sugarville would not regret having had a film company in their town. Plenty of film companies left bad debts, pregnant girls and angered citizens in their wake.
BECAUSE THE explosive charges caused a matching problem they were going to have to shoot most of the scene in sequence from the moment of the crash: sending the dazed occupants of the other car to shelter; Maggie trying to pull Jody from the wreck; the arrival of the two police cars; the brief fierce fight between Maggie and Jonathan, ending with Jonathan pointing his gun at Maggie’s belly and hissing, “Get going!”; the shoot-out, and then Jody staggering out of the car; she and Jonathan stitched by machine gun bullets and dying wordlessly in the dust. Later they would pick up the police action, Maggie and Elaine’s escape and some close-ups. It promised to be a long hard day, and because of the explosives everybody sincerely hoped they could get everything in one take.
When they had Jody made up and in place in the wreck, Harry went over to her. She looked terrible, with blood on her face and in her hair. Harry touched her shoulder and said, “How do you feel?”
“Not so good,” she said. She looked more nervous than she had since her first scene.
“Is there something the matter?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I wish—well . . .” and she trailed off. “It’s sure hot in this goddamn wreck,” she finally said.
The other actors were getting into the car now, and the effects man wanted to make sure Jody knew how to tug the wire to make the steam work, and so Harry backed away and got into the shade. He was too keyed up to sit, so he stood with his hands in his pockets. Those damned explosives made everybody nervous.
By three in the afternoon everybody was limp and frazzled. The air was filled with the sharp odor of cordite and there was no wind, so the smell just hung over everything. They were now up to the toughest part of the scene, where Jody in a daze stumbles out of the car and Jonathan has to come out from behind and try to save her. Jody had been great all day, forced to sit for what seemed hours in the heat of the wreck with explosives going off all around her, playing unconscious. But now she and Jack were over on the porch of the store talking, and Harry could tell from the way Jody was standing that something was the matter. As he was walking over to see, Jack turned away from Jody and came to Harry.
“We’ve got a bit of a problem,” Jack said. Jody stayed on the porch, her hands at her sides, looking at Harry without expression. He could tell she was determined about something.
“What’s up?” he asked Jack.
“She doesn’t like the way the scene goes,” Jack said.
Harry laughed and waved him off, going up to the porch.
“What’d you do to poor old Jack?” he asked her. “He thinks you’re trying to rewrite the script.”
“I don’t want to do that,” Jody said. “But I don’t like the way the scene ends.”
Harry opened his mouth and then shut it again. He did not know what to say. This happened all the time, of course, one actor or another either trying to fatten his part or being genuinely concerned over the action. Sometimes the actors were right and changes had to be made, but this was the first time Jody had done anything but make little suggestions.
“Jack!” Harry called. “Come on over.”
Jack said from the shade of the honeywagon, “Have you fixed things up?” Harry grinned and shrugged and Jack waved him off. “Straighten her out, she’s your girlfriend,” Jack said. So the gloves were off.
“What’s the trouble?” Harry asked her.
“It’s just so damned passive,” Jody said. “I come out and stagger around and get shot down. I don’t like it.”
“But you see, it functions,” Harry said. “It’s very useful to the story.” He laughed, poked Jody in the ribs and said in a low voice, “It gets that snotty son of a bitch killed, doesn’t it? Doesn’t that make it worth doing?”
But Jody would not be jollied out of it. “I just think it’s too damned passive for Helen.”
“Helen’s not that important,” Harry tried but that did not work either.
“She’s important all right,” Jody said. “I’ve watched you handling everybody for months now. You aren’t going to handle me. I know you. Don’t try it.”
“All right, I’m sorry, you’re right. Okay, tell me what you think ought to happen.”
Jody bent over and picked up something out of the dust. “It looks like a piece of that Indian pottery,” she said, handing it to Harry. “Keep it for me. I think I ought to pick up a gun or something and fire back. I mean, Helen for Christ’s sake pulls a shotgun on a couple of cops just for the hell of it. She’s not going to die like that, just staggering around looking for the lady’s room or something. She’d go out shooting.”
“But she’s dazed,” Harry said. Over Jody’s shoulder he could see Lew’s worried face as he pointed frantically at his wristwatch and then at the sun. “Come on,” he said, “we don’t want to lose the light. You don’t want to have to work tomorrow, do you? Hell, this is your last scene. Tonight we celebrate.”
“Goddamn it, Harry, cut that out. I really mean it. I think she should get a gun somewhere and shoot it out.”
“You bitch, you’re like every other goddamn actor in the fucking world,” Harry said bitterly. He was not manipulating now, he was really mad. “You get a few thousand dollars worth of film on you, you know fucking well we can’t kick you out of the picture, so all of a sudden you’re an expert on story lines. Bullshit, lady! You’re an actor. Get in there and do your acting and leave the script up to the writer!”
Jody laughed at him. “You mean the way you did?”
Harry was stunned. What she said was true. He was too angry to talk and too confused to turn away, so he stood in front of her taking short panting breaths until Jack came up to them.
“All solved?” he asked with a little smile.
“Give us a few more minutes,” Harry said.
“Bob Teague’s starting to bitch to Lew,” Jack said, and walked back into the shade.
Harry looked at Jody’s bloody dirty face and smiled, saying, “You know, it’s kind of hard to argue with you when you’re all made up like this. What I really want to do is put my arm around you and take you to the doctor.”
“Please, Harry,” she said. “It’s hard enough for me to do this. But I really mean it. Way back in LA when I was sneaking looks at the script this scene bothered me, but I just didn’t think you’d let it happen. I mean, it’s all wrong. Please. Can’t we shoot it my way and your way too? Then you could see what I mean.”
Harry kicked at the dirt with his toe. Of course they had done that for Maggie a couple of times when he had had suggestions that Jack disagreed with; it was far easier and cheaper to indulge the actor sometimes. But not this time. It ground at Harry to have Jody pulling this on him in her last scene of the picture, but there was an even better reason:
“Baby, you’re going to be wired up with explosive squibs and blood sacks. When they push the button you’re going to have to do it right, or we blow the day. We just don’t have time to do it both ways.”
He took her by the arm and led her around to the front of the grip truck, where he drew them both tall paper cups of water. Others kept away from them, and out of the corner of his eye Harry could see a couple of the electricians starting to toss a frisbee.
“Look,” he said. “I can understand your feelings. You’re probably right for that matter, I just don’t know. But you have to understand. We’d have to reblock the scene. We’d have to do close-ups on you getting the gun and stuff like that, carrying right over into tomorrow. We’re right on schedule now. I mean you just have to realize that these things aren’t just a simple matter of changing a little bit of business.”
“Oh crap, Harry,” she said. “There’s supposed to be a fucking pistol in the glove box. All I have to do is come out of the car waving the gun, fire a couple of times and then get shot down. You don’t even have to change his lines.”
Harry threw his paper cup down and walked away from her. “Let’s get going,” he said to Jack. Jack got up and pulled Harry around the honey-wagon out of hearing.
“Did you fix her?” he asked. “You look pretty pissed off.”
“I am pissed off, and if she doesn’t do the scene the way it’s written the hell with her.”
“Oh shit, you know better than that. Get a grip on yourself.”
“Shoot the scene,” Harry said, and walked away. He wanted to walk over to the oak trees and sit in the shade watching the whole thing from that distance, but the trees were in the shot. Instead he went into the store. Old Mr. Sumner was in back in his office and so Harry had the place to himself. He could hear the assistant directors yelling outside, so he knew they were setting up for the shot. Jody was probably being wired for her bullet holes now, and the effects man would be telling her how to react to them. He could not help worrying. He had seen enough actors damaged by those things. But you could not make a scene of violence anymore without showing the actual bullet wounds. People would laugh at you. He hoped she would not get hurt, especially after he had had to treat her roughly, but it was the amateurs who did get hurt, and for all her abilities and talent, she did still lack experience.
Standing in the dimness of the old country store with its half-empty shelves and its battered old Coca-Cola cooler, Harry allowed himself to think about the future. What was going to happen to Jody after this picture? Harry would definitely have to get her an agent. On the basis of the raw film they had shot on her so far, he was sure she could land one of the big agencies like IFA or CMA. She would not get a big star build-up or anything because she was too old, but she would be getting a lot more money and better billing. It even might be possible, Harry thought, to get some really good young writer to do a screenplay for her. Then he had to laugh at himself. Nobody did that sort of thing anymore.
In half an hour they were ready to shoot. Bridger was off pacing up and down getting himself up for the scene and Jody was inside the car, all wired up and made up and ready to go. Harry forced himself to walk over to her. She looked up at him coldly.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he said. “How do you feel?”
Jody reached over to the glove compartment and pulled out the pistol, a worn old .38 with half the bluing worn off the barrel. She pointed the pistol at Harry’s face, and automatically he pulled back.
“Where’d you get that?” he asked her. He saw her finger whiten on the trigger and heard the sharp click. “Why, goddamn you,” he said and walked away. He found the prop man sitting on the back of the grip truck dangling his feet.
“Who told you to give Jody McKeegan that pistol?” he said.
The prop man was a flat-faced Australian with one drooping eyelid. He smiled at Harry, showing his teeth. “She said she wanted it for the scene.”
“Do you realize that if that fucking thing had had any fucking blanks in it she might have blown my eye out?” Harry said angrily. “Get it away from her!”
The prop man pursed his lips and slid down off the gate. “Yas, Boss,” he said sarcastically, and trudged off toward the wrecked cars. Harry followed him, aware that several members of the crew had heard him blow up. Fuck them, he thought. In a few days he would have the exquisite pleasure of saying goodbye forever to most of them.
He arrived just in time to hear Jack say, “Jody, if we don’t get this scene in the next ten or fifteen minutes we aren’t going to get it.”
Jody, still in the car, said, “Then that’s too bad.” When she looked over and saw Harry she swung open the bent door of the car and stepped out. “I’m not going to do it, Harry,” she said, and went over to the honeywagon and climbed in.
“Oh fuck,” Jack said.
“Just a minute,” Harry said, and went to the honey-wagon. Jody was sitting inside in the air conditioning, her face drawn. She looked at least her age, and maybe a couple of years older, Harry thought. The strain was tough on her. He had to admire her, though, even if she was wrong. He closed the door behind him and pushed some costumes off the other chair and sat down.
“Baby,” he said. “I love you.”
“Thanks,” she said dully without looking at him.
“You must understand. This is not your scene. This scene belongs to Johnny Bridger, it’s his big moment in the picture. You’ve already had your big moment, now it’s his turn. He’s the star of the movie. It was practically written for him, and this scene particularly. He’s the cool one, the cold one, and now he dies trying to save your life. Your way it’s different, the point gets lost. Do you understand what I mean? I know, from your point of view your way looks good, probably better than the script. But I have to keep an overview, I have to keep in mind what the whole picture’s going to cut into; the balance, the tempo of the whole picture. You have to trust me: your way throws the whole thing out of kilter. Please. We only have a few more minutes.”
“I don’t know about any of that,” Jody said. “But I know Helen and I know what she would do. She would not get out of that car and wander around while people are shooting at her. She would either lay there or shoot back. I mean it.”
There was a knock at the door and Harry reached over and opened it, seeing the concerned face of Jonathan Bridger. He said to Harry, “Can I talk to her for a minute?”
“No,” Harry said. “Oh, hell, come on in.”
“I just wanted to tell her how much I’ve appreciated her work,” Bridger said. He gave Jody his best slow grin and said, “You really helped us all, you know, by being a real p
ro. I guess that’s all I had to say,” and he left them alone again.
Into the silence Harry said, “Okay? Can we get our scene?”
“No,” Jody said.
For the first time since the argument had started, Harry looked directly into her eyes. What he saw there convinced him that he had made a mistake. There would be no changing her mind and so it was Harry’s fault that they were wasting the afternoon. He should have seen immediately that right or wrong Jody meant to have her way about this and he should have found a way to make it look all right.
“We’ve got enough time to shoot the scene once today,” he said to her. “Do it my way, and I promise you that tomorrow we’ll shoot it once your way before we pick up the close-ups. Deal?”
“If we shoot it my way tonight,” Jody said, “you can see what I mean.”
“All right,” he said. “Let’s go do it.”
Outside he did not even bother to take Jack out of people’s hearing. “Jack, we’re going to shoot the scene her way tonight. Have we got time for one rehearsal?”
The Hollywood Trilogy Page 37