Thank You and Good Night

by Ray Succre

  Beyond this, in all honesty, things are fine. It is not much with wine my cup is stained, but in an abundance of middle-aged gravy. I age badly (though my knee is still top-notch), and I miss the presence of my earlier energy. Your little brother finds himself regressing into sharp, unpleasant moods. At times, I feel like I have evolved into a titanic fake, though I can dismiss this once it has run a day’s course. Favorable reviews help. More and more, I have the nagging sense that I’ve prepared a good series of creative lectures on important things, but the lecture hall is empty because the audience would rather hear the same boy-howdy rubbish I dreaded in radio. I suppose I feel as if I’m suited-up for no reason. Do you feel this way, at times? If I take these lectures back to New York, to the beginning, the street, as it were (it is anything but), I might get a few people to listen for a moment, but the name-calling would invariably begin, and rather than being entirely dismissed, I’d be made fun of and THEN dismissed. I fear the world is not saving its cruelty and vehemence for the bad reviews anymore, but more and more beginning to bring the behavior of critics and untoward commenting to real life. The things people will say to one another out here, nearly without tact, are striking and cold. Some of these Hollywood people… If they’re not powdering your face, they’re pissing on it.

  Tomorrow, older brother, the city may be overrun with unemployed hippos, and yet there are still small grains of hope about, stored in glass shakers that can easily be jiggled atop one’s more daily meal. I am mixing my metaphors. Let me be simple: Yes, I am remaining hopeful that the pointlessness of what you and I do will at last pointlessly reach more ears and eyes. You in the journals and news rags, me in the flicker of cathode rays. I not-so-long-ago relinquished my expectations of the medium, which is of sound reasoning to me. I wonder if you have done the same. You do seem more relaxed of late.

  Accepting the tough-love of television might keep me from feeling let down, or, not as discouraged as I have lately been. I am sure you hold a similar conviction on the matter with the newspapers. I should not expect the thing that pays me to change much. That is seldom the behavior of those who pay for art. The arrangement operates on feedback, but seldom creates the useful sort. The unfortunate nature of trade in which I am now local, however, is that most others do not relinquish their notions of what is good and what is bad, and hold the expectation of awards and money over all. I have awards and money, for now, but it is a constant dog-fight. I would rather be gauged on what I can do, rather than what hired others say of it in passing.

  The elementary nature of it is that the critics hobble over the audience. The more the public seems fond of the show, the harder the critics look for flaw. Due to pronounced readership, critics preside over my work in the manner of judgement. Most of them cannot write. There are those who do believe that if you are not accepted by throngs, you are bad at your trade. There are others, equally damaging (and generally wearing those dark berets we’ve been seeing about), that have convinced themselves, and their lessers, that all beings are of great talent and anyone with the gumption to sit at a typewriter can compose a great work with little sweat. Both of these mindsets are damaging and wholly untrue. There are geniuses whose very tongues light afire when they spit themselves through a script, and there are bubbling sods that when given a blank page only shit through their hands, holding their skill with a sickening, novice reverence. These two extremes have much power over the press and Hollywood. It is productivity funneled into a market. You’re supposed to pick a side, somehow, to go spineless into success or proudly into failure. You’re to be soul-less or miscarried, and you have to pick one.

  The reviewers are worse than the critics, however, for they lack a knowledge of the medium, or even good writing, and sway almost as many people as the critics. At least reviewers, for what little it’s worth, wait to nip at you until you’re done with your work. They hold for an episode and, once they have received it, judge your show thus far. The critics watch the first act of a single episode and then use it to judge your entire career. Perhaps you have little interest in these exploitative facets of Los Angeles. I can’t help but describe them to you. They are on my mind with such frequency and get hold of me so expertly that one might call them perpetual. The noise does not stop at mere review or criticism, but is far more pestilent in nature, and I know you enjoy hearing about these things.

  The executives, in their self-generated aplomb, are even more troubling. They are a calculating and deceitful lot, but they own the plantation, you see. These simpering, rectal pumps, who know little about actual writing, have somehow, in recent years, usurped the position of collectively deciding what is good and what is not in the script world. The critics sway it, the reviewers muddy it, but the executives do the actual deciding. They eat and fuck in this power religiously, and I meet a new one to the day. Knowing these egotistical yes-men and show-brokers is more troubling than most of the struggles I have encountered in this trade. They make me greatly disinterested in my fellow man, the more each week. In short, they are making me more like them. I’ve mentioned Jamison to you in the past. My troubles with that man know no end.

  Let me return to my present location: We have arrived at the Grand Canyon, and I will say that the word ‘majesty’ (which my so high school geography teacher, Mrs. Heinemann, a woman you’ll likely remember quite well, kept repeating) is indeed the most apt term. Stunning. Deep. Majestic. I keep thinking about the plane collision that happened in the skies here only last year. What a terrible mess. Even thinking about it gives me a sense of strong dread. The shops and tourism board here are still trying to recover from it. Beth gets annoyed when I ask around about the tragedy, so I have learned to inquire in quiet, sating my untoward curiosity with the shop-owners and hotel clerks when my wife is more than several feet away. I don’t wish to arouse her frown. It is a potent one, and I have learned to keep it at bay, certain days. I can’t help but want to know more about the plane collision, however. Planes don’t collide in the air over national treasures every day, brother, and how could a person not want to know more about that?

  The canyon. Here we have a hole in the Earth, or really a channel, but a vast and soul-reaching one, and rather than having been blasted into the floor by meteor or man, it has simply resulted from water. Looking down into its maw, one finds it nearly silly that it stops where it does. 5,000 feet from your head to the bottom, and yet it seems as if it could simply drop forever, all the way to the other half of the world. There is no joy in tossing a nickel from the top (Beth was upset at my childishness), as you will never hear it strike or see it bounce so far below. You simply banish the coin into non-existence. What is it about great heights, or else great depths, that make men so gleeful? Is it the prospect of obvious death? Is it imagining the plummet from the top to the ground, how long it might take, what you might strike on the way down? Perhaps yes, for me. Beth’s first spoken thoughts, while we stood at the edge of this magnificent thing, were on color and tranquility: “It’s like another planet, isn’t it? So brown and orange and sunlit. So peaceful.” My first spoken line was “Can you imagine falling right over this edge? Look at the outcroppings! You’d have your head smashed to bits long before you ever reached the bottom.” Boys and girls, as they say.

  We’ve slept out the first night, and are soon heading out to breakfast. I had another of my ill dreams last night, come to visit me from the war. I woke up in a screech. I’m used to them, but every now and then, I’ll have a more ghastly one. I’ve told you about the man at the end of my bayonet. Well, it was him. He is a character that recurs only in the worst of the dreams. Last night, he was quite animated. At the least, I haven’t been dreaming about the crate, lately. That one gets to me. Other than last night’s dream, and my sudden, temporary boredom, the trip has been all bells and whistles. A great time, and both Rebecca and Vivian are still interested in the canyon park a full day after arriving, which surprises me.

  I’ll return to this letter tonight or tomorro
w. It is the only writing Beth has allowed while on our vacation. I probably already told you that. A shame I didn’t bring my correction fluid.

  ***

  What’s the story, morning glory? Do you have the kidney stones yet? I suspect you must. I hear they come for those citizens close to your old, old age. That is the price you pay for being born first, brother. All of the ailments will find you a few years before they seek me out. I do not envy your John Thomas in the coming years, but you will advise me on proper medications and the better remedies, I trust? It is your duty, and I will benefit from your discoveries. If you do not yet have the kidney stones, please try to get them soon; the more time you spend with them, the more experience you will have, and the better the advice you will be able to offer me when I finally contract that grievous ailment. I hear some bright, scientific minds have announced that kidney stones are more probable for those who spend time masturbating, but I suspect that’s some shoddy science, so you may be in the clear, after all. I will not judge you your time alone at night.

  We have returned from our long and adventurous day in the canyon. It is late and I can not sleep, of course. Re-reading the first part, I am noticing I made things sound somewhat tragic and lost. Please don’t think this. I don’t. I am still greatly interested in my fellow man, simply not my fellow executive man. They are more like beetles. There are executives who like my writing, yes, but never as much as their own ideas for how it should go, of course. They like it because they have changes in mind. In this way, little can be done. Every television writer is a vehicle for an ad out here, worse than in New York, if you can believe that. It is remarkably difficult to stave off disbelief and create a sense of earnest suspense when you have to cut to a talking, acrobat puppy advertising toilet paper. I am not exaggerating. Wait until the fifth episode airs. You will see that mischievous pup. I suppose Vivian will adore it, but she does not buy the toilet paper in our house. Anyway, it’s murder. Plain murder. Most executives are avenues that want to connect to every possible street around, and yet somehow remain unique and disciplined. Our best friends out here are investors and product sales rankings. What shit.

  I am embarking on a movie script when I return from the canyon (and this overwhelming Arizona heat), though my excitement for it may have me starting we leave the canyon (Beth is watching; have to be careful). Perhaps I could begin writing the script in code, hiding it within this letter. You would keep hold of it for me, wouldn’t you? Yes, you’re a good man, William Asher, kidney stones or no.

  I am keeping somewhat hush about the script, as I don’t want to devolve it through talk. It needs to have a few scenes before I can tell folks what it’s up to, or I risk not writing it, like so many other stories. The story is not mine, this time around, but that of a french author I’ve been reading lately. It’s a wonderful little book, and I want to write a film script for it, but will have to alter a few things here and there because his book did not have a movie in mind, and the locations are quite exotic. The story is a bit odd, even for me, but the Pacific Pictures people assure me I can let my imagination run when it comes to makeup and costuming, and even location, within obvious reason. The author and his publisher have given me written permission, though I have been unsuccessful in being able to talk to the author. I’d like to ask him some questions. It’s a good book. I think it could be a good movie. I know he speaks English, but I just can’t seem to get him on the phone.

  I’m nearly finished with another Other Side script, possibly my best thus far, but we’ll have to see after the director gets his hands on it. It’s my 22nd script for the show, and my 12th to be accepted and dedicated to being shot. There are times, good brother, when I feel as pampered as one of H.G. Wells’ unaware Eloi. I must decree that these times are quite short. I spend the majority of my hurry-to-it days pressed on all sides by the dark of the industry. I get the praise when it comes, yes, and I am recognizable due to my on-camera hosting of the show (I’m nearly free of stage-fright, finally), but when there is rejection and anger and criticism… these things go straight to me, as well. The middlemen out here take the praise when they can get it, but defer the negative remarks to the writer. There is more criticism than praise for me at this point in the life of the show. For most shoots, I feel to be less an Eloi, and more a twisted, machine-addled Morlock. A harvester of innocents.

  The sad thing is that I had to set this letter aside and actually go through my briefcase just now to discover what number of script that last one was. I thought maybe somewhere in the twenties. I don’t really count much anymore. It does little for one’s skill. My output is strong, but I can’t keep this up forever. Already, I am finding myself numb at the typewriter, which is occurring more and more this year.

  My first full script for Pacific Pictures is already in their hands. They’ll read it sometime in the next week or so, if they haven’t already. I’m very nervous. The story is disturbing and I could have gone too far. Hollywood seems to enjoy my sort of written drama and the use of moral and speculation in my newer stories, but I didn’t give them much of that this time around. It’s quite dark and is based on the war. Things went awry there, of course. I don’t need to tell you. I very much wanted to capture some of those things to show the newer generation. How awful men can be, and were. Again, I’m nervous. Much of the story is about starvation. I’m trying not to think about what will happen if Pacific Pictures responds with “Mr. Asher, we can tell you spent a lot of time on it, but no one will ever film something like this.” It happened to Chayefsky, even after winning his Academy Award. This is always a plausible response when you try to do something staunchly human.

  I’m feeling a bit tired now, so I’ll try to sleep. I realize now that I am writing to a fictitious version of you, one that wants to hear all my gripes. When I return to this letter, which will eventually make its way across the country to the actual you, I’ll be better in mood. Insomnia is a terrible bitch, you know. I used to loathe her, but now I somewhat rely on her. We are companions, most nights. You are lucky she has never climbed into bed with you.

  I will admit however, that my best work leaves my fingers in the wee hours.

  ***

  Late morning. The Sun is sinister here. We’re on our third day of it, and today is the actual date of the anniversary. Beth woke in a grim mood this morning, but after showering, she is now somewhat giddy. We’ve got a nice day planned, and Rebecca is ecstatic to see more of ‘summer’, which she seems to think has occurred. Though we are months from summer, this drive to Arizona has peaked her interest in the seasons, and she is curious as to how we simply skipped the spring. I want to explain what has happened, what with weather and time zones and region, and it might serve as a good time to introduce her to an idea about the Earth’s tightly-cinched belt, the equator, but her innocence is so adorable that I’m going to let her keep her view of things until the drive back, then perhaps make a game of spotting different phases of habitat. You know: Desert, scrub, then brush, trees, civilization again. The whole way back, if she’s game.

  The Los Angeles Times asked to interview me last week, and I fulfilled it. This happened very quickly. They called and the following day I gave an interview. It could hit the streets at any point this week. As with this letter, I rambled on for far too long. I don’t care much about that, however. No one has to read it. I’m long-winded. More feed for the bag. There were a few pinpoint questions, directly about me or one of my scripts, but mainly, the questions were broad and asked things in the vein of “Tell us about what and why you write, and your influences,” and “What do you think about the live drama shows in New York versus the pre-shot drama shows in Hollywood?” Come now, that is my bread and butter, and the field I know too well. How can I answer those questions without saying what I actually think? What I actually think runs much longer than a sentence or two. People who read newspapers are typically adults, and adults can handle a little long-windedness from time to time. I am certain you disagree h
owever. Your work in the journalistic art necessitates brevity, of course.

  I don’t know how truncated the interview will be when it goes out, if it’s not out already (haven’t made it to the shops yet, today). The Times might chop the interview to pieces with the journalist cleaver. I hope they refrain from doing that, though I know there are constraints to how much space they can give an interview. The strangest thing about having an “image” in this business is that I, myself, am the one person who doesn’t get to create my image. An image is created by others, minced up, augmented, and branches out in complete disorder. It’s funny, I’m the person to whom my image is attached, but I have no real say in it, even though it is supposed to represent me. A strange thing, when you think about it.

  Beyond the world of teleplays, I’ve been trying to get more time with Beth and the girls (this letter would seem to indicate the opposite, but this is a temporary vice, and you know how quickly I can type). The four nights before this vacation, I managed to make it home before nine. It’s hard work, but I nearly have to beg for this time away from the studio. The executive producer, Jamison, doesn’t see eye-to-eye with me at all, but he does have a penchant for family, has a few nieces by marriage who he somewhat adores, so I am rewarded in that way when we get along. If I don’t push him too much, I get more time with Beth and the girls. It’s sinister, but I can somewhat rely on this facet of him. Beth seems pleased with my being home, but only at night. By morning, she is grumpy and upset, watching as I head back to the grinder. She has lately been a nudge moody and quiet. I thought perhaps there was a pregnancy, but was incorrect. It was foolish to assume my wife’s ill mood must have been due to her body, and not my constant absence. She is most assuredly upset with me, but the quiet sort, which crams me with guilt. I’m not going to try to find the underlying details of it however. I’ve learned better; this is most likely a matter of the television schedule, and it will take her time to better accustom to it. Television shows do not last more than a few years, and therefore, I have precious little time to flesh this one out and work within it. The time I am granted with The Other Side is a span in which I have necessarily nil to give up. I need all of it.