by Joe Keenan
THE NEXT FEW DAYS proceeded without incident. Claire lit out for parts north while Lily and I did our best to spice up the details of her threadbare midlife career. Then Friday morning Monty phoned to inform me there’d be no work that day as he was treating us to a festive lunch. He told me to don my spiffiest suit and meet them at twelve sharp at the Beverly Hilton.
“Can I come?” whined Gilbert as I jotted down the address. I asked Monty, who said, “By all means! The more the merrier!”
On reaching the Hilton we found ourselves trapped in a long caravan of limos at the end of which was a red carpet. The carpet was lined with a great noisy rabble of reporters, all shouting and elbowing one another aside in their frenzy to get a glance, a smile, a comment from the arriving luminaries. A large banner over the press line read FILMFEST LA and I suddenly recalled that Stephen had mentioned the event some weeks ago, saying he was to be honored as the Entertainer of the Decade. My heart fibrillated even as my breakfast petitioned for early release, for I realized at once that Monty had chosen this diabolical moment to pounce.
For those of you unfamiliar with it, FilmFest LA is an annual confab of producers, distributors, and deal makers who gather to flog their wares and bestow a dozen or so spectacularly ugly trophies. Unlike the Oscars, which ostensibly celebrate excellence, or the Golden Globes, which, whatever their stated mandate, celebrate Heat, the FilmFest unabashedly honors commercial success.
Back in the seventies they started giving an Entertainer of the Year Award to add more star power to the proceedings. It worked so well they began offering an Entertainer of the Decade Award every five years, justifying the double-dipping by alternating male and female performers. The Decade Awards draw the starriest crowds, and the red carpet along which we made our unhectored way seemed thronged with every actor who’d ever worked with Stephen or hoped to. We jostled past them, soon reaching a checkpoint where we were mercifully refused entrance owing to our lack of tickets. I was trying to convince Gilbert that we’d be better off heading home and donning our Hazmat suits when I heard Monty shouting my name.
Turning, I saw that he and Lily were making their way down the carpet. Monty sported a stylish pin-striped suit and carried a leather shoulder bag the contents of which I could only surmise with dread. Lily, her face’s taut translucence concealed beneath a thick coat of maquillage, wore a chic green Chanel suit and looked happier than I’d ever seen her, vamping and posing up a storm for the stymied paparazzi, some of whom took her picture anyway, figuring they’d sort it out later.
“Isn’t it exciting, Glen!” she twittered on reaching us. “Oh, forgive me. I keep forgetting you’ve taken Philip as your nom de plume.”
“Gilbert, I presume,” said Monty, pumping his hand. “Are you two an item?”
“Ages ago,” said Gilbert. “Now we’re just collaborators.”
“I see—though not right together, nonetheless you write together.” He addressed the gatekeeper. “Hello, Monty Malenfant here.”
She asked to see tickets and he explained that they were the aunt and uncle of the honoree.
“Well, she knows that! ” laughed Lily, shooting the bewildered ticket taker her “Yes-dear-it’s-me” smile. Monty, doubting if the lass had sufficient clout to assist us, asked to speak to her superior or anyone able to establish contact with Stephen. At length an officious fellow with a clipboard appeared and curtly informed us that Stephen was upstairs in a hospitality suite and could not be disturbed. Monty politely insisted that a message be conveyed to him, assuring Clipboard that Stephen was waiting for it and his failure to deliver it would earn him the star’s lasting ire. The message was that his uncle Monty and dear friend Oscar were there, as arranged, to see him. Were Stephen too busy to see us just now, Monty would happily wait, passing the time by introducing Oscar to the many charming people on hand. Clipboard scowled and bustled away, dialing his cell phone. When he returned shortly, the medic tending to his ear with a fire extinguisher made clear the message’s impact on its recipient. “He asked to speak to you,” he said, handing Monty the still-smoldering cell phone.
“Stephen, my darling! So sorry I’m late. Should Oscar and I just pop up with the material?... Splendid! Oh and could you arrange seating please for Lily and a young friend?... How terribly kind of you.”
Clipboard escorted us up to the penthouse. He rang the bell and we were promptly admitted to a large, elegant suite packed to the rafters with Entourage.
Owing to the highly secretive nature of our work with Stephen, we’d been granted the exceedingly rare privilege of dealing with him one-on-one, all handlers save Sonia being banned from our meetings. This then was my first glimpse of the army of courtiers who daily danced attendance on him and whose ranks only swelled on such august occasions as this. There was Sonia, of course, her girth encased in a pin-striped black pantsuit that made her look like one of the gangsters in an all-lesbian Kiss Me, Kate. Joining her was a babbling swarm of publicists, agents, studio reps, stylists, hair and makeup artists, bodyguards, sundry friends, and a masseur of the conventional variety. They fluttered and swooped around Stephen, anticipating his every need. When not genuflecting they jabbered into cell phones with the staccato self-importance that invariably infects those who’ve been granted that most glittering coin of the Hollywood realm—Access.
At the center of it all, like a child with thirty nannies, sat Stephen. He was having a neck rub while smoking a cigarette that trembled slightly in his hand. I didn’t see Gina or Diana and wondered if they were off in other suites with minions of their own. At this level of fame were entourages something one didn’t share, even with family? Like toothbrushes?
“Stephen!” cried Monty exuberantly, capturing every eye in the place. “Do forgive my tardiness. Not to worry though—I’ve made all the changes you asked for. Give your old uncle a hug!”
Stephen, I knew, was as thrown as I was by Monty’s brash ebullience and puzzling reference to requested changes. But as discretion forbade his replying, “What do you mean, you blackmailing scum?” he summoned a wary half smile and said, “Hey, Monty.” He gave him a perfunctory hug, stiffening slightly when Monty kissed him loudly on both cheeks.
“Mwah! How nice you smell. New cologne? Hello. Monty Malenfant,” he said to the masseur. “Stephen’s uncle and head speechwriter. And you are?”
“Julio.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Julio. My, what a firm grip! Sonia, my angel! It’s been ages. What a pretty frock you’re wearing. Hello, hello!” he said, waggling his fingers at a nearby haggle of agents. “My goodness!” he chortled, surveying Stephen’s retinue. “You should’ve told me you were low on help today. I’d have brought another regiment. Ha ha!”
He opened his satchel and removed a manila folder containing several typed pages.
“Now per our discussion I’ve made the alterations you requested, and if I may say so, the whole thing just sparkles. You’ll no doubt want to read it over and — might I ask your cupbearer for some of that wine? And for Philip?— if you think any last-minute tweaks are called for I’ll be happy to make them. Thanks, Ganymede, aren’t you a darling? Cheers!”
Sonia, tight-lipped with rage, stepped forward. Mindful of the onlookers, she attempted a smile, the result suggesting a constipated gargoyle.
“Maybe we could all talk about this somewhere more private?”
“Of course! Mustn’t spoil the element of surprise! Lead the way, my pretty.”
We followed Sonia down a short hall to the suite’s large bedroom. As soon as she’d closed the door, she wheeled on us with a look that made me know how the matador feels.
“How dare you show your miserable faces here!”
“Now there’s a silly question,” said Monty. “You know perfectly well how I dare. The question for you is what I dare and trust me, it’s a doozy, though in light of your disgraceful treatment of Lily I find it eminently fair. Your views may vary. How are you coming with that?” he asked Stephen, who was
staring goggle-eyed at the pages Monty had given him.
“What the hell is this?!”
“I should think that was obvious. It’s your acceptance speech, love.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?!” said Stephen, aghast. “I can’t say this crap!”
“Of course you can,” said Monty. “Been doing it all your life. Speaking words written by others as though they were your own, lending them force and the bracing tang of reality. Do try to keep your voice down when you reach page two, as the impulse to howl will be a strong one.”
Stephen turned the page, read a bit, then leaped like a man who’s just peed on the third rail.
“Have you lost your fucking mind!”
“Give me that!” growled Sonia, grabbing the pages.
Alarmed to think Stephen might assume me a witting accomplice, I fervently assured him I had no idea what the speech even said. It was hard to make myself heard though, as he was rhythmically pounding the arms of his chair while repeating the word “no.”
“Jesus fucking Christ!” exclaimed Sonia, reaching page two. “You’re fucking nuts! I’m calling security!”
Monty retorted that the only security Stephen could hope for lay in delivering the speech verbatim.
“How can you do this to me!” raged Stephen. “You’re my god-damned uncle!”
“And entitled, as such, to administer discipline when called for. Come along, Philip.”
“No!” cried Stephen, bounding past us to block the door. “I’m calling your bluff! I know you, Monty! You can threaten me all you like but you’d never send that film to the media!”
Monty gently patted his nephew’s cheek and spoke, as they say, more in sorrow than anger.
“Once, Stephen. Once I wouldn’t have. But that was before you bewitched this one into stealing your poor aunt’s diaries. Bad form, love. Very bad form. It made me quite angry at you, which is why I’ve posted clips of your little Oscar party on a website.”
Stephen blanched and Sonia grabbed Monty roughly by the shoulder.
“You put them on the fucking Web?!”
“Unhand me, sir. Yes, on a site the domain name of which is known only to me. I see, Sonia, by the fur that’s just sprouted on your forehead that you’re contemplating doing me an injury. Don’t. I’ve already e-mailed links to ten publications. I’ve done so on a time delay so the message will go out at five today unless I return safely home and cancel it. So you see, there’s no wriggling out of this one.”
Stephen stepped away from the door but kept his imploring eyes on Monty. I must say that for all the fierce and genuine emotions he must have been feeling, his gaze had a whiff of the stage about it. He was feeling pain but playing it too in a last-ditch attempt to shame his uncle into mercy.
“This was supposed to be my day, Monty. The biggest damn day of my life.”
“And so it will be. One way or another.”
AS WE LEFT THE SUITE I begged Monty to tell me what he’d written for Stephen. He declined, puckishly maintaining that he didn’t want to spoil the surprise. His real reason, as he later conceded, was his well-grounded fear that if he told me I’d have bolted from the hotel, leaped into a cab, and screamed, “Airport!”
We returned to the lobby and relocated Clipboard. Monty informed him that Stephen had requested we be seated backstage to serve as prompters. Could two chairs be placed in the wings? This clearly struck Clipboard as an odd request, but as Monty had proven himself an authority on Stephen’s wishes, he acquiesced and led us into the ballroom.
I saw that Gilbert had been squeezed into a table on the other side of the room. Lily sat opposite him, chattering away to Quentin Tarantino, whose eyes darted madly in search of rescue. Moira was there too, of course, at a front center table well larded with A-list stars, plus Bobby, Max, and Maddie.
Clipboard led us down the side of the ballroom and up three stairs to the wing space, which was just two curtains with logos flanking the low stage. He informed a fellow with a headset that Stephen wanted us seated there as prompters. This greatly flustered Headset, who seemed to have a lot on his plate just now, but one doesn’t flout the Entertainer of the Decade’s will, so chairs were produced and we sat down to await the festivities.
Stephen’s award was, of course, the last on the program, and the hour leading up to it seemed the longest of my life. The suspense alone was torment enough, but it was even worse having to endure it while listening to a ponytailed producer tearily extol the “courage, tenacity, and vision” he’d displayed in shepherding Whoa, You’re No Chick! to the screen. Finally after much boasting and bathos, Bobby Spellman, Stephen’s introducer, took the stage. He did a little double take when he spotted Monty and me in the wings, then launched into his remarks, which for sheer bombast left his predecessors entirely in the dust.
I’ve never understood why speakers at award shows insist on making it sound as though movie stardom is not merely a swell job offering fame, fun, glamour, and a heck of a nice salary. No, it is rather a great and selfless service to humanity, ranking on the nobility scale somewhere between cancer research and famine relief. In Bobby’s intro, which ran an exhausting ten minutes, he praised Stephen’s high principles, uncompromising integrity, and countless good works on behalf of the less fortunate. As an actor Stephen was a “visionary” whose boldness, versatility, and artistic daring would influence screen acting for centuries to come. He dwelled at length on the Caliber films, the grosses for which were the real reason Stephen was being honored. To Bobby these were not just well-crafted escapist entertainments— they were “modern retellings of sacred myth,” soaring testaments to the human spirit and man’s unconquerable heroism in the face of evil.
When he’d finally run out of blather, a screen was lowered and highlights of Stephen’s career were shown. It’s no small comment on my vanity that even in my agonized suspense I felt a frisson of pride to see that gorgeous kisser fill the screen and think, “Yeah, I know that guy. Did him.”
The screen was raised and Bobby proclaimed, “Ladies and gentlemen — Stephen Donato!” We heard the audience applaud wildly and presumed from the scraping of chairs that they’d offered the de rigueur standing ovation. Stephen took his place behind the podium and Monty waved to catch his attention. He hadn’t expected to see us there and, should he ever tackle the role of Macbeth, the moment will make a good sense memory for the scene with Banquo’s ghost. He was not carrying any pages, but when Monty shook an admonitory finger he removed them from his jacket and spread them on the podium. He took a breath so deep it drew chuckles from the house—how charming that he’s nervous!— then began to read.
“I’d like to thank my great and wise old chum Bobby Spellman for that generous introduction. We go way back, Bobby and me. Sterling fellow. Don’t be fooled by the scary eyebrows and Prince of Darkness goatee. True, he may look like something red-hooded young ladies would do well to avoid en route to Grandma’s, but beneath that carnivorous exterior beats a showman’s tender heart. Splendid filmmaker too, if a mite too fond of explosions, but we all have our little foibles, so I say why cavil?
“Thanks too to the good folk of FilmFest LA, not only for this curiously designed trophy but for the invaluable service they perform. Especially now during awards season when the whole town’s gone gaga over ‘Quality’ and ‘Artistic Merit’ it’s nice to see someone give a well-deserved pat on the head to those savvy producers who’ve kept a keen eye on the bottom line and shrewdly gauged the public’s often baffling appetites. I’d also like to thank my new partner, Moira Finch. Most of you have met her by now — she’s seen to that!— and I’m sure you’ll agree she’s quite a gal —smart, charming, and, as those of you who’ve visited her spa can attest, one hell of a hostess.
“Most of all I want to thank my family—my indomitable mother, Diana, for everything she’s taught me and for always accepting me just as I am. Gina, my supertalented wife who looks after me and forgives my little quirks and habits. And I especi
ally want to thank my aunt Lily...”
His voice caught as he said “Lily.” He paused and glanced down, massaging his forehead like an overcome eulogist. Monty though knew that his inability to continue stemmed not from teary sentiment but from the most profound reluctance. Monty had anticipated just such a contingency and prepared for it shrewdly.
Reaching into his shoulder bag, he removed two small male figures. One appeared to be a nude G.I. Joe. The other was an Oscar. Coughing lightly to catch Stephen’s attention, he positioned the two figures horizontally, Oscar on top, then commenced grinding them together while fluttering his eyelids in mock ecstasy. This gentle reminder served its purpose admirably. Stephen promptly recommitted to his text, bringing to it a fervor and conviction his performance had thus far lacked.
“I want to thank my wonderful aunt Lily, who always looked after me whenever Mom was away on location or hospitalized. Lily was my first real acting coach and I will always be grateful to her for that gift.
“I’m grateful too for a more recent gift she gave me, one I hadn’t been expecting. You see, I always knew Lily was a fantastic actress but never dreamed she was an amazing writer as well. But then I read her screenplay, Amelia Flies Again!, a gripping tale that dares to imagine what fate may have befallen Amelia Earhart after her disappearance in 1937. I’m thrilled to announce that I’ve acquired the rights for Finch/Donato Productions and will be starting preproduction immediately.”
On hearing this, Lily (reports Gilbert) shrieked in astonished glee and squeezed his arm so tightly it bruised.
“That’s me!” she announced to her luncheon companions. “That’s my screenplay! I’m his aunt Lily!” she added as if she hadn’t made this abundantly clear to the whole table and several adjoining ones as well.