Dirty Movies

by Cate Andrews

  Selecting a new biro from his laptop bag, he resumed his circling. Yes, his life had changed beyond recognition, yet here he was, doing exactly what he had dreamt of all those years ago; making a great movie that he truly believed in. In the past year, he had witnessed a broken man rise, like a phoenix from the ashes, into a staggeringly inventive and gifted director, an alcoholic, pill-popping has-been turn in the greatest performance of her career, an odd-ball, moose-obsessed cinematographer create celluloid worthy of a thousand gold statuettes and a lowly runner transform a cruddy old office with peeling wallpaper and questionable electrics into a brutally efficient hub of business. A hard lump formed in his throat. He was so fiercely proud of everything their cast and crew had achieved. Children’s birthday parties, wedding anniversaries and annual skiing holidays had all been cast aside in a show of dedication far and beyond the call of duty.

  Punching a number from the Market Guide into his phone, his handsome features set with determination. He owed it to everyone to land a smoking hot Sales Agent, to forge them a killer distribution deal, and help bring their brilliant little movie to the big screen.

  ‘If that’s a hit-man for Stephen, ask him to name a price, then double it,’ said a voice suddenly as Joe slid into the seat next to him. Michael smirked, raising a finger to his lips as the call connected.

  ‘Yeah hi, is that Mr Oakwood’s office? This is Michael Wilson. I called earlier today and left a message for… I’m calling from Harper Fil…oh right….yes, I see…well when he gets out if you could…’

  Joe flinched as the PA cut him off mid-flow.

  ‘This Cannes thing’ll be a helluva lot more enjoyable when agents stop treating me like a groupie with crabs,’ snarled Michael, chucking his mobile on the table. ‘We need our crazy heads examined. I don’t know of a single, decent production out here that doesn’t have a sniff of interest except us. And you know why? It’s ‘cos their smart ass producers got on the phone months ago to book up all the meetings in advance. Now our potential sales guys’ diaries are steamin’ and we can’t even get a look in… How the hell did you get in here anyway? I thought the AmPav was members only.’

  ‘I flashed an engaging smile at a lovely looking lady.’

  ‘Don’t let Polly hear. The French have a habit of serving up testicles as a delicacy. I’d hate for her to get any funny ideas.’

  Joe frowned. ‘How many times do I have to tell you, there’s nothing going on between Polly and me. Besides, sweet breads are calves’ testicles, Mr Wilson.’

  ‘That chick probably thought you were Zach Roberts.’

  Joe grinned and lent over to put a suggestive hand on his leg. ‘You know what that makes you then, dontcha?’

  ‘Ah, get off!’ Michael batted his hand away, picked up the Market Guide and shook it firmly in his face. ‘I’ve got far more important things to worry about today than hot hook-ups.’

  ‘Aha! So you DID notice her then?’ said Joe slyly.

  ‘I might’ve taken a moment to appreciate the scenery on my way in.’

  ‘You should ask her out on a date.’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘Go on, she’s cute. It’s been months since Maisie. You could take her to see a movie. I gather there are quite a few on round here at this time of year.’

  ‘I said no! Now, fuck off!’

  But he refused to budge so Michael ignored him and returned to his paper as Joe watched two young filmmakers clink champagne glasses on the stretch of golden sand outside. Lucky bastards, he thought enviously. They were most likely celebrating some life-changing distribution deal.

  ‘You’re right. We should have landed a Sales Agent in advance. It’s my fault for not listening to you when you mentioned it in January,’ he said, guiltily.

  ‘Don’t be such a martyr,’ muttered Michael.

  ‘A martyr flawed by hubris. I assumed Christine and Benito’s silver screen reunion would be enough to land us someone straight off the bat, or rather boat, in this case,’ he said, gesturing at the gleaming white super yachts moored in the harbour.

  ‘It’s only day two,’ argued Michael, ‘there are still plenty of sales sharks circling that Croisette.’ But as he said it he crossed his fingers. They only needed a nibble. The market screening alone ought to generate a stampede for the nearest contracts lawyer. Then they could unleash their three secret weapons. On the flight over, their publicist had confided that there was nothing worse than a fabulous film with a dreary crew. This had filled them all with optimism. The co-founders of Harper Films had more charm than a militia of Clooneys.

  ‘Any reason why you’ve sacked off the Brits and Yanks?’ asked Joe, appropriating the paper and pinching a peanut.

  ‘I’m focusing on foreigners,’ Michael lied. ‘Film sales are international, after all.’

  ‘You mean you’ve tried them and no one’s interested. Do I detect the fetid stench of another GBA intervention? Making this movie is like peddling uphill with Vincent sat on the stabilisers. It was hard enough convincing the festival board to give us market accreditation access.’

  Michael shook his head. ‘GBA don’t have that much sway. Besides, we haven’t heard a squeak out of them for months.’

  He was right. Vincent’s seismic heart attack last November had brought an abrupt end to GBA’s smear campaign. Overnight, previously unavailable cameras were being offered to Benito at drastically reduced rates. Even the council had rushed through their location permits in record time. Suffice to say, a great sigh of relief had swept through the production office.

  ‘So what are you saying?’

  ‘This is more my father’s doing. When he yanks the strings, everybody dances.’

  ‘Oh well,’ said Joe cheerfully, ‘all humble filmmakers should have a mega studio boss adversary; it makes things twice as interesting.’

  ‘You mean four times as hard.’

  ‘Then it’ll be eight times more satisfying when we have a smash hit on our hands.’

  Michael started laughing. ‘Joe De Vries you’re a fatal optimist’

  ‘Better than an incurable pragmatist.’

  ‘Ah hell, where’s Polly when you need her,’ sighed Michael, snatching back his Market Guide. ‘I’ve no idea who i’ve called and who I haven’t now.’

  The entire film would have crumbled if it hadn’t been for Polly’s tireless dedication. Working longer hours than a pit pony, she had been the backbone of their production, and as a thank you for all her and Janie’s hard work, Christine had shouted them a jolly to Cannes.

  ‘She’s gone shopping on the Rue D’Antibes,’ said Joe, pinching another peanut.

  ‘How are a couple of designer frocks gonna help our situation?’

  ‘It’s a tactical move. Christine came across another poster for Love Letters when out walking Coco this morning. I begged Polly to cheer her up by any means possible.’

  ‘Jeez, can you blame her? GBA’s crap is being touted as the best thing since sliced pain, when WE have the better movie. I still don’t understand how we were excluded from the competition.’ Missing out on a slot in the festival’s Official Selection had been a blow. The kudos of being In Competition would have lent a couple of dashing white festival feathers to their movie’s poster and sparked fireworks for their publicity campaign.

  Just then, Joe’s eyes started gleaming with mischief. ‘Janie told me Vincent’s giving a producing master class in the Palais de Festivals later. Fancy heading over for a spot of back-row heckling?’

  ‘Do you want to get me arrested for GBH?’ grumbled Michael.

  ‘C’mon, it’ll be a laugh.’

  ‘Alright, but I’m going incognito.’

  ‘Comedy moustaches all round then. What on earth do you think he’ll say?’

  ‘Most likely, it’ll be a four hour rant on how to make everyone on set as miserable as possible. Step one: how to make your crew feel utterly worthless. Step two: how to make your financial backer weep with rage… Still, it can’t be any wors
e than sitting round here feeling like The Elephant Man.’

  Later that evening, the two men regaled tales of Vincent’s master class over a basket of fruit de mer on the terrace of a local café, much to the hysterical delight of Polly, Janie and Christine.

  ‘What tips did Vincent share for coping under pressure?’ gasped Janie. ‘Did he hand out t-shirts with targets printed on the front?’

  Michael grinned. ‘I seem to recall him changing the subject at that point.’

  ‘How did he look?’

  ‘Fatter. He must be the only man who’s gone through the trauma of a triple bi-pass and come out three stone heavier. He’s like a gastric band patient in reverse.

  Just then, a hearty breeze swept through the terrace and they all swooped to catch their bread rolls and paper napkins. Watching the palm trees sway back and forth like a rock concert audience, Polly was reminded painfully of Morocco. So much has happened since then, she thought wistfully, glancing at Joe. There was no point denying it, she was still hopelessly in love with him. Working together was like being tortured by Brad Pitt; agony but heavenly just the same.

  Reaching out for another crab claw, she watched as a super sleek, blacked-out Escalade glided up to the pavement outside their cafe. Celebrities were two a penny during the festival, she had already spotted Zach Roberts scrutinizing his reflection in the window of Gucci this morning, but something about the vehicle’s classy elegance caught her eye and held it. Michael saw it too. Without a word, he stood up and stalked inside.

  ‘Hands up who had the oysters,’ murmured Joe.

  ‘I better go and see if he’s ok’ said Polly. ‘Can someone order me an espresso when the waitress comes back?’

  Squeezing in between the tiny brown tables and chain-smoking Frenchmen, she found Michael lurking in the cramped corridor by the toilettes and clutching an upside-down menu. His eyes were fixed on the vehicle outside.

  ‘Michael…’

  He held a finger to his lips.

  ‘But…’

  ‘Shhhh!’

  Polly turned to see what was so fascinating as the chauffeur stepped out of the car to open the passenger door. A split-second later, a pair of gleaming crocodile skin cowboy boots hit the sidewalk, followed by a razor sharp, impeccably fitted black Tom Ford suit and a rugged, sun-tanned face, every bit as handsome as it was harsh.

  Polly looked from the man to Michael in amazement. From the smooth arc of his cheekbones to the square arrogance of his jawline, he was an exact replica of the man standing next to her, albeit an older, more unforgiving, don’t-mess-with-me-or-you’ll-end-up-swimming-with-the-fishes version.

  ‘Is that you’re father?’ she whispered in awe to Michael.

  Michael nodded grimly.

  She gazed at Walt Wilson again. Sharp suit aside, his edgy black shades, slicked back grey hair and olive-skinned complexion gave him a much more menacing, mafiaesque presence than The Godfather himself. They watched together in silence as Walt swept into the uber expensive restaurant next door.

  ‘You should go speak to him,’ she urged.

  Michael looked at her as if she was mad. ‘Don’t you think I’ve taken enough humiliation for one year?’

  ‘I’m sure it wouldn’t be as bad as you think.’

  ‘Wanna bet?’

  Polly shrugged. Michael knew his father better than anyone.

  ‘Were you expecting to bump into him here?’

  ‘I had a hunch. He likes to jet in unannounced to keep his employees on their toes. Jeez, Polly, just when things couldn’t get any worse.’

  ‘Come back to the table and have another glass of wine,’ she begged him. ‘He’ll be the one stalking you through the window of a café when you turn Memoir into a Best Picture Oscar.’

  Michael gave a flicker a smile. ‘You and Joe are so similar, you know that?’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Nevermind,’ he said, chucking the menu on top of a pile of soggy Orangina drink mats. ‘You’re right, we better head back. I can see Christine fidgeting from here.’

  Returning to their seats, Janie patted Michael’s arm in sympathy. ‘You poor bugger, seafood poisoning’s the pits.’

  ‘Come, come, sit down,’ said Christine bossily, tinkling her water glass with her butter knife. ‘Now that supper’s over, we’ve important things to discuss. I believe it’s high time we switched tactics.’

  ‘What she going on about?’ murmured Joe but Michael looked blank.

  ‘Darlings, look around you…Cannes is an indisputable networking haven!’

  ‘Only if you’re willing to schmooze yourself onto the right guest list,’ said Janie. ‘Anyone got change for a fifty?’

  ‘Hang on,’ said Polly, ‘Christine might be onto something.’

  ‘You’re only saying that because you want to drink Cosmos with Mr Cruise.’

  ‘Tom Cruise is here?’ she squeaked, ‘are you serious?’

  ‘Come, come, darlings, we’re losing our main objective.’

  ‘To give Vincent another sixty-eight heart-attacks?’ drawled Michael.

  ‘No, No, No!’ shrieked Christine, losing her temper. ‘It’s to sell our wonderful little movie to the world!’ All of a sudden her eyes filled with tears. ‘Don’t you see, Michael? Memoir is just like the infamous inmate of Isle Sainte-Marguerite across that bay.’

  Janie and Joe exchanged looks. Michael looked even blanker. Only Polly cottoned on.

  ‘You mean The Man in the Iron Mask?’ she answered, tentatively.

  ‘Indeed I do, young lady,’ beamed Christine. ‘As for the rest of you, your lack of classic literature, not to mention historical knowledge, is shameful’

  ‘That’s a bit unfair,’ protested Joe. ‘I can list every movie soundtrack from the 1980s.’

  Polly giggled into her espresso. Christine raised her left eyebrow disapprovingly.

  ‘But what’s the dude DiCaprio played got to do with anything?’ demanded Michael.

  ‘You mean the character from the classic Alexander Duma novel,’ replied Christine crushingly. ‘Michael, like our film, The Man in The Iron Mask, was a mysterious secret that, if unveiled, had the potential to amaze and astound in equal measure.’

  ‘Hopefully the ‘if’ will be a ‘when’ for us,’ muttered Janie.

  ‘Now drink up!’ urged Christine, ignoring her. ‘It’s already half past ten and the parties tend to start once the evening screenings are over.’

  ‘Shame we’re not invited to any then.’

  ‘Well, it just so happens that i’ve managed to land us guest list slots for Zach Roberts’ after show party tonight. That gives us just enough time to pootle back to the hotel and put on our glad rags.’

  ‘How the hell did you swing that?’ demanded Joe. ‘It’s the hottest ticket in town.’

  ‘Oh, the publicist’s an old acquaintance of mine. Dreadful woman but she does have a little black networking book the size of Crime and Punishment, so, with a bit of luck, we may just discover ourselves a Sales Agent tonight after all.’

  They exited the café and strolled through the narrow pedestrian streets of Le Suquet towards their hotel. Christine had booked them into a charming little boutique hot spot on the outskirts of the Old Town, where the bright red bougainvillea and pallid pink climbing rose had exploded over the doorway in an epic battle for colour ascendancy.

  ‘Rather like the De Vries brothers and their battle for cinematic superiority,’ said Michael, when Christine had first drawn his attention to it.

  Half-listening to Janie and Polly as they compared outfits for this evening, Michael’s stomach lurched uneasily. His father would be there tonight. There was nothing his Pa loved more than pilfering a thrilling new movie discovery from some drunken executive whose tongue had been loosened by too many cocktails.

  Michael swallowed another uneasy burp. All of a sudden, the thought of coming face to face with his father after all this time was a far more punishing prospect than a dozen baskets of dodgy fruit
de mer.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Anchored off Cannes and vajazalling the Med like an Essex girl’s nether regions bobbed a surfeit of celebrity super-yachts, of which the resplendent Mega Hit was a worthy addition.

  Eighty-two metres long and oozing a magnificence matched only by some obscenely rich rap star’s floating paradise nearby, the yacht was the perfect venue to host the party for Zach Robert’s new film, or so thought top publicist, Emelda Rooster, as she cast a beady eye over the final preparations.

  Delicate strings of Chinese lanterns hung from the polished railings and beautiful, hand-picked waiters and waitresses stood poised to tempt A-list arrivals with glasses of chilled champers and caviar. To add an extra frisson to the proceedings, Zach Robert’s new husband was rumoured to be accompanying the star tonight in their first public ‘outing’ since their lavish Mexican wedding. This had sent the press into a feeding frenzy, and Emelda had already spotted the snorkels of several well-known Paps circling the yacht’s hull below.

  ‘Marie!’ she screamed, as a young girl shot into view wearing a set of headphones so large they could pick up signals from outer space. ‘Where the hell is our DJ? I told him 9pm sharp, and look!’ Roberta tapped her watch, impatiently. ‘I don’t care if he IS number one in eighteen countries right now. I want him here and setting up in the next five minutes!’

  ‘Yes Ms Rooster,’ cowered poor Marie, whipping out her mobile faster than a cowboy in a gunfight. ‘I’ll see to it right away.’

  Gearing up to give her beleaguered assistant another earful, Emelda spotted Stephen De Vries slithering across the deck towards her.

  ‘Captain Emelda!’ he called out heartedly, ‘what a spectacular vessel! Do let my office know the charter details when you have a chance. I’m so bored of desperado D-listers invading my hotel breakfast table every morning. It puts one right off one’s croissant.’