Now he hated the Writer. What are you doing in this business? he wanted to ask him. You don’t understand why the audience loves a good silly movie. You think we make them because we’re stupid, or that we think the audience is stupid, but you’re the one with contempt. What kind of stories did the Writer like? The Writer probably loved film noir. He probably loved shadows and moral ambiguity. He probably hated slapstick, or movies where the audience cries because a wonderful person dies of a disease. Griffin was sick of the Writer, sick of his intrusion into what was already a difficult life. If the Writer wanted to get his movies made, then he had to get past Griffin first, and if he couldn’t register on Griffin’s emulsion, then he didn’t belong. It was that simple. And if he thought himself better than the movies, better than Hollywood, then Griffin wanted the last words the Writer would ever hear to be the players credo: “I love the audience, I am the audience.”
Nine
Griffin walked into The Grill a little after one. He was late. The usual crew of lawyers and agents nodded at him. There was Witcover, who only two weeks ago had screamed at him. Witcover gave a little wave. The room was filled with happy people, millionaires and the men who had helped make them millionaires. The wood-paneled room, with comfortable booths and small tables, was supposed to remind you of old Hollywood; it was supposed to remind you of Musso and Frank’s, or any grill from the early twenties, with high walls and pressed tin ceilings. Griffin knew that the Writer would argue that this look was part of the Disneylandization of America, that the whole country was becoming art directed, that soon there would be no sincere style, that nostalgia was grazing its way to the present. The movies are turning America into a movie, the Writer would say. Griffin knew the argument and rejected it. He liked coffee shops that were little comedies, with waitresses playing the parts of waitresses, and menus pretending to be menus from the fifties. He liked The Grill, which pretended to be a steak joint in old Hollywood; it was a pleasant joke, since none of the new Hollywood people would ever eat a steak at lunch. Everyone had salad or poached fish. No one drank martinis anymore. All the liquor at the bar was just decoration. Why not have lunch on a set? He supposed the Writer would hate everyone here. Of course, the Writer was just jealous.
Danny Ross was already sitting at Griffin’s usual table, along the wall, in front. This made Griffin happy. Here was his chance to atone for David Kahane. Ross stood up as Griffin introduced himself with as much charm as he could. He was tall and nervous, the timing of his handshake was off and their grip was uneven, Griffin caught the edge of Ross’s palm. He was a few years older than Griffin, maybe thirty-six. Wasn’t he a little old for this? Ross had no credits. Why didn’t he do something else with his life?
“Let’s order,” said Griffin, nodding at his waiter. “Have you decided?”
Ross asked for a Cobb salad, lettuce chopped with turkey and bacon. Griffin had the same. Ross buttered a roll, and the dry crust flaked over the tablecloth.
“So,” said Griffin, “what’s new?”
“In life?” asked Ross.
“No, in the movies. You have any ideas?”
“A few.”
“What’s your favorite?”
Ross looked down at the table and pressed a finger to the flakes of crust and brought them to his mouth. It was an absentminded gesture. There was something attractive to Griffin in its repulsiveness.
Ross began his story as the salads were brought to the table.
“Your name is Andy,” he said. He had obviously told this story before, the pitch was memorized. “You’re eleven years old and the last cowboy in America. Everyone else looks into the future, into spacemen and rocket ships and transistor radios, but all that keeps you from collapsing into your nightmares are your beautiful rocking horse, your cactus-and-longhorn bedspread, and an old black-and-white TV show, The Cowboy. It’s basically the Hopalong Cassidy Show. You know that Hoppy sold three hundred million dollars worth of toys from 1950 to 1955? That’s bigger than Star Wars.”
Griffin already didn’t like the story. And Ross was telling it slowly. “So, what happens?” he asked.
“Okay,” said Ross. “When the show is canceled, because, as everyone tells you, ‘Cowboys are finished,’ you’re devastated. You watch the last episode, when the Cowboy puts the whole evil Clanton gang behind bars, and then it’s over. Well, if it’s bad for you, it’s worse for the Cowboy himself. His show is off the air, and it hasn’t been shot in years. Anyway, the money is gone, he’s a big drunk … what’s left to him but to put on his Western gear one last time and, singing ‘Home on the Range,’ take a step from an eighth-floor window of a fleabag hotel? And instead of getting the oblivion he hoped for, he’s standing at the fence between a desert and the greenest pasture in the universe, the entrance to Cowboy Heaven, where the King and Queen of the Rodeo are really giving it to him for what he’s done. When he tries to tell them that the West is finished, they chew him out some more: The West is alive as long as someone believes in it. And he says: ‘No one believes in it anymore.’ And then they tell him about Andy. Meanwhile, back in the sixth grade, you can’t concentrate at school. You try to talk about the Cowboy’s suicide, and everyone teases you. One little girl, Sandra, is sympathetic, but you’re too broken up to notice. Your nightmares are getting worse. The wolves behind the radiator are on your bed. The Something under your bed is reaching through the mattress. It covers your mouth with its hands, you can’t even scream (and if you could, would your parents even come this time?) … and then there’s a familiar sound of a majestic wonder horse at full gallop, and now the Cowboy is in the room, on his great horse Shadow, and they’re cowpunching the monsters, and the Cowboy is shooting the wolves (and can’t your parents hear this?), and now the Something melts away, and you’re alone in your room with the Cowboy and Shadow. Shadow nuzzles your cheek. ‘Looks like Shadow has made himself a friend,’ says the Cowboy. This is the hero whose death humiliated you. You start to hit him. And he takes it, because he must. He tells you to get on your pony. You say you only have a rocking horse. He says, ‘Well, then, Andy, rock.’ So he gets on Shadow, and you get on your rocking horse, and you start to move, and you can’t believe it, but you’re entering a blue cloud, the room disappears, and the familiar rolling movement of the rocking horse changes, becomes a frisky bounce, you’re out of the room, out of the blue cloud, your rocking horse is now a beautiful little pony, and you’re in the West, you’re in Cowboy Heaven. And before you can take it all in, breathe the pine air or admire the river and the mountains beyond, a wizened old prospector tears by on a buckboard with the awful news: the Clantons have broken out of jail and they’re attacking the stage. Now the Cowboy realizes his mission, to help Andy grow up, and to rid the territory of the evil released by the Cowboy’s death. You help the Cowboy stop the stage and capture one of the bad guys, and then he puts you on your pony and sends you back to your bedroom, and your pony becomes a rocking horse again, and when you wake up, you wonder if it really happened.”
This was taking too long. Griffin ate his salad slowly while Ross kept going on. He owed it to the Writer and to Kahane to really listen to Ross. Still, there was something inventive about it. If they didn’t make the movie, perhaps Ross would be a good choice for an assignment.
“And, of course, you’re still not sure it’s real, not until you go back when you’re not supposed to, and the Cowboy isn’t there, and you see the Clantons, dressed as Indians, rustling the cattle, and your pony gets spooked and you fall off. The pony runs back into the blue cloud, into your bedroom, becomes a rocking horse again, and you’re stuck. You can’t get back. It’s real. Now you have to: Walk across a desert. Find the Cowboy. Save the Indians from the angry townsfolk who blame them for the rustling. Save the Cowboy when he’s wounded. And you get to: Become Geronimo’s blood brother. Fish and play with the Indians. And the Indians’ medicine men get your pony back for you, and you finally go home. You promise the Cowboy you won’t say where you’v
e been.”
Who did Ross imagine would play the Cowboy? If Clint Eastwood wouldn’t do it, who was right?
“You’ve been gone for a month. You don’t say where, not until, at school, some kids make fun of Indians in a class play, and you tell everyone what Indians are really like, and how you’re Geronimo’s blood brother. Then you race home and try to go to Cowboy Heaven, but the Cowboy stops you. You broke the one rule: You told. Then your father burns the rocking horse, which he always hated. Then they bring you to a psychiatrist, who gives you tranquilizers, and you’re a dulled wreck. And then Sandra, the girl who always liked you, says, ‘Geronimo’s blood brother doesn’t need tranquilizers,’ and she shows you that at night she’s a Civil War nurse with Florence Nightingale. You pull yourself together. You teach your father to fish. He knows you’ve changed, knows something happened when you were away, but he also knows not to press. He respects you. Okay, now one of the kids at school starts a Civil Defense false alarm, and everyone thinks the bomb is on its way, and your teacher faints, you bring order, you lead, you’re a hero. And at home that night, content, happy, at peace with yourself, while your parents are having a party and you’re in the den watching television on their old black-and-white set, you turn the channels and find, in color, an episode of The Cowboy you’d never seen before, but it’s not an episode, it’s a message: The Clantons have captured the Cowboy. They’re getting ready to blow up the train. How can you help? The Cowboy’s great horse, Shadow, is in a corral. You call to him and he hears you, and he leaps from the corral and bursts through the television. You get on his back and he jumps through a picture window into the blue cloud.”
That’s a nice touch, thought Griffin.
“You get a posse, lead the cavalry, and because you’re on Shadow, you get to the Cowboy just in time to save him from being blown up. Together you save the bridge and the train, and bring in the Clantons. You even get the reward. And then it’s time to say goodbye. The Cowboy takes you to the split-rail fence at Cowboy Heaven. You meet all the great Western heroes. The King of the Rodeo gets your old pony back for you. The Cowboy gives you the reward money. You say good-bye to him. The dinner bell rings. You watch the Cowboy cross the fence, and then you ride away. When you get back to your room, the pony doesn’t change back to a rocking horse. Your parents are there, but they can’t really speak. You casually give your father all the gold coins from the reward. You ride downstairs and out to the bus stop. You put the kid who always tormented you in his place, and then you ask Sandra if she wants a ride to school. She gets on. The pony carries the two of you away, and you ride into the day while Roy Rogers and Dale Evans are singing ‘Happy Trails.’”
Ross put a wad of salad into his mouth and waited for Griffin to say something.
“This is the best idea I’ve heard in a year and a half,” said Griffin. “We have to get it to Spielberg.” He was honor-bound to make this Writer as happy as possible, and to get him the deal. He was honor-bound to make Cowboy Heaven and stop the postcards. “One question, though,” he said, watching Ross contain his triumph. “Does it have to be the fifties?”
“I thought of setting it in the present. Andy tapes old Westerns at three in the morning.”
“Good,” said Griffin, “in case people think the fifties have been done to death.”
“The audience always likes it,” said Ross.
“I want to chase this one,” said Griffin.
Sylvester Stallone came into the room with his agent. The agent stopped at Griffin’s table. Griffin knew Stallone. He introduced Danny Ross to him. “Sly, this is Danny Ross, the Writer.” Stallone’s agent looked Ross over; obviously he was important, but why hadn’t he ever heard of him? Calling him the Writer was a good touch. Griffin could see by his stunned silence that Ross had just been airlifted to the top of K2.
As they left the restaurant, Griffin asked Ross who his agent was. Griffin knew her, Marla Holloway. He told Ross to have her call. They said good-bye. Griffin handed his claim check to the parking attendant, and Ross walked away, into Beverly Hills. Of course, he had parked at a city lot. Of course, he could afford the three dollars for the parking; he just didn’t want anyone to see whatever kind of awful car he drove. What did Danny Ross want to drive? A Honda? A lot of writers drove them, thought Griffin. Prissy people. Griffin’s Mercedes came to the curb, and he went back to the studio.
When Griffin first came to work at the studio, reading scripts and writing the coverage on them, Levison was the hero to a hundred hopeful executives. The studio’s guiding principle had long been to hire movie stars and directors who had won or been nominated for Academy Awards. Levison was the studio’s wild card. It was said of him that the studio didn’t understand him but was too scared to let him go. Young comedy directors, young horror directors came to him, and he argued their stories in court, and their movies were made. After the then head of production spent thirty-five million dollars on a flat musical, the studio’s chairman fired him, and in three days Levison was in charge. The predecessor left the studio with his two vice presidents, from whom he was never apart, and Levison was free to fill the offices in his hall. Watching him, Griffin thought he’d recognized a calculation supporting each part of Levison’s behavior, which was relaxed, almost careless. Levison was always a little sloppy. He needed a haircut, or his tie was uneven, and his car was a dump for scrap paper, old scripts, newspapers, and parking passes. Where was the strategy in that? Now no one else could be messy.
There were other executives to mimic, but Griffin saw that those newcomers who copied the more flamboyant styles looked obvious. Griffin hated shaving, but he knew he would never grow a beard. Some very rich men in Hollywood were bearded, but most of the assistants and vice presidents who wanted to look like rich producers with beards only looked like those assholes with license plates frames that say MILLIONAIRE IN TRAINING or MY OTHER CAR IS A PORSCHE. The bearded producers were only copying the bearded directors. The bearded directors were all copying Francis Ford Coppola. And Coppola, Griffin told himself, was too busy to shave, or didn’t like the shape of his chin. Levison encouraged a casual style at the studio, which his executives appreciated, because this slight contempt for expensive, impeccable grooming gave them a feeling of belonging to the team. From a distance Griffin watched Levison and admired him. Levison, before his promotion, had let it be known that he liked Griffin’s script reports and had, a few times, asked him into his office to talk to him about movies, about casting, about directors. Griffin knew he was being scouted for a position, and one day, after his promotion, Levison asked him to sit in a meeting with him, when a director whose fee was three million dollars came in to pitch a story. After the pitch Levison turned to Griffin and asked him what he thought. Griffin had said, “This is not a finished idea.” Levison said nothing, the meeting ended, and when the director was gone, Levison told Griffin he was now a vice president. At that moment Griffin had fallen in love with Levison; the feeling of relief and pride had overwhelmed him.
Then he understood that Levison’s cultivated eccentricities were not without purpose, that he used the bits and pieces of his personality as weapons. After he was hired, Griffin always walked away from the crowd when people did Levison impressions, the head cocked just so, the brow furrowed before asking a difficult question, the repeated phrase, “I submit …” As in, “But I submit that you could shoot these three scenes in one location, and if you could, then why do you need the second two?” Griffin hoped that people made fun of his own manner, but he knew they probably didn’t. If they do, he thought, then I probably have a better chance of being head of production someday. It was, he knew, too late to develop a trait for the sake of attention and power. He wished he was marked, or scarred in some way. He reconsidered something. Of course, there was a Griffin Mill impression, and it went like this: “Let me think about this for a few days. I’ll get back to you.”
Griffin was in a meeting with Aaron Jonas, an agent who wanted to mov
e into production, when Jan called him on the intercom to say that Andy Civella was on the line. Griffin excused himself and took the call.
“So, are you ready to pitch?” he said, trying, with his humor raised, to anticipate Civella’s attack of confidence.
“I already pitched. I’m waiting for your response.” But this wasn’t Civella.
“Andy?” Griffin asked, but it wasn’t Civella. Who knew he had seen Civella? He knew it was the Writer.
“I think I’m just going to haunt you. I want to make you uncomfortable. I want you to be so distracted that it’s impossible for you to work.” Then he hung up. When the Writer was at the Polo Lounge, he saw him with Civella, had recognized Civella. Why be surprised at that? Civella was a little bit famous.
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