Sex & Genius

by Conrad Williams

  Hollywood wouldn't want this story. Adela's claim was thus corroborated. Shane Hammond was evidently committed to a challenging film in the European art-house tradition – a commitment that was not unimpressive. Here was a film star who liked good prose.

  He did not expect his admiration to move Hilldyard. The author would have more finely tuned reservations than he could imagine: the stratospheric vetoes of the absolute perfectionist; but Michael's admiration could not be ignored. A reader's response was a fact, and the more informed and discriminating that reader, as Michael hoped himself to be, the more likely it was that Hilldyard would soften a little. And if Hilldyard softened, Michael would say more, letting his marvel flood out of him; and possibly, it was not inconceivable, the author would change his mind. It was a possibility – however remote – which he would need to anticipate.

  He felt a nervous tingle at the prospect of talking to Adamson. He had seemed so easy in London, self-consciously friendly, as if success had granted him reserves of casual charm for people like Michael. Hey, if you were positive, anyone might be useful. One gave out the karma of pleasantness to ordinary folk, and it came back to you in the world's admiration. But beneath the fixed smile lurked a harder energy. All his life Adamson had made it. Even as an undergraduate, when raising money for student films, he was clinching contacts, toning CV, pushing towards his destined incarnation as Hollywood producer; and even if in those days he were all things to all men, one sensed his desire to go beyond what friends and contemporaries could offer him. Accordingly, Michael had distrusted him. Ambition was a suspect quality in an undergraduate. Though if Adamson personally were the shallow coefficient of his own ambition, he had nonetheless achieved his goals and reaped the harvest of his will. However single-minded he had been at twenty, he was incalculably more so now – a man with the capital of success behind him and the drive to build on it. Michael was drawn to the idea of someone who succeeded where he had failed. He was curious to encounter the qualities he lacked, curious to see them lived out in another.

  He hoped Adamson would manage courtesy.

  The ringing tone opened a vista on to daytime Los Angeles. He pictured the fog hanging on biblical hills, vaulting palm trees, the view from Adamson's poolside condo. He had no idea whether he lived in Santa Monica or Beverly Hills, but wherever he was based he would be true to the clichés.

  The housekeeper answered: Japanese.

  'Michael Lear for Nick Adamson, please.'

  'Thank you, sir. Hold the line, please.'

  Michael held on, listening hard. He heard footsteps, a resonant voice, footsteps returning.

  'Nick Adamson.' The tone was peremptory.

  He wondered if his name had been mentioned.

  'Nick, hello. It's Michael.'

  'Michael?'

  'Michael Lear.'

  'Oh! Michael! How ya doin'?'

  'I'm well.'

  There was a pause.

  'Is this a bad time?'

  'You caught me in the gym.' He sounded matter-of-fact, economical with the pleasant. 'I'll switch on to mike.'

  Michael hesitated, waiting for Adamson to make the necessary adjustments.

  'Hear me?' The voice was suddenly echoey, cavernous.

  'Yes.'

  'You in LA?'

  'No, Italy.'

  'OK.' He was neutral. 'That was some encounter last week.'

  'It was good to see you.'

  'You, too.'

  He probably took a lot of calls like this, now he was hot; names from the past shooting him a line, hustling projects.

  'So what's new?' he said.

  'Nick, I'd appreciate your advice.'

  He let out a hollow laugh. 'I charge by the second.'

  'I won't make a plea for old time's sake, but I'll owe you a favour.'

  'Just don't tell me you've got this incredible script about a social worker from Harlow New Town who gets cancer and commits suicide.'

  There was a Californian tang in the voice now, as if Adamson had arrived at his true hip and no-nonsense self.

  'Not quite.'

  'Well, I'm here on the exercycle doing forty miles an hour and I can hear you loud and clear.'

  Michael strove to be succinct, even at the risk of seeming naive. 'I've an author friend who's been approached for film rights on his latest novel. It's a literary novel.' There was no need to tell him everything. 'He's worried that the film version will, I don't know, bastardise the book.'

  'He should be so lucky,' said Adamson, panting slightly. 'But yeah, if it can be bastardised, it will be.'

  'Is that a universal law?'

  'Pretty much.'

  He could sense that Adamson was already bored. 'We're talking about a major novelist.'

  'Doesn't help when you're trying to finance a picture. You need a hot script, bankable stars, an ace director. And literary novels are a fuck to adapt. If your friend gets a decent offer, he should take the moolah and run. Chances are the thing will never happen.'

  These generalisations were unobligingly perfunctory, but then Michael had not played his card. It was as if Adamson could not be trusted to believe him when he said 'major writer'.

  'You'd give the same advice to James Hilldyard?'

  There was a light hesitation. 'As in James Hilldyard the famous novelist?'

  'Yes.'

  'That's your friend!'

  Michael hesitated. 'Yes.'

  Adamson paused, adjusted tone. 'Major bard. I can see he's concerned.'

  He sensed that Adamson, though still noncommittal, was listening harder.

  'I need to advise him on the hazards of adaptation.'

  Adamson cleared his throat. It was not something he found easy or rewarding to think about. 'Kind of story?'

  'English characters, forbidden love, beautiful landscape.'

  'Like what genre?'

  Michael allowed himself to smile. 'Nick, it's a literary novel.'

  'Equals art-house picture.'

  He remained poised. 'I expect so.'

  'Great way to lose money.'

  'What would be the impact of American financing?'

  He grunted. This was hard work for Adamson. 'American distribs won't touch this without a star – a face that'll play in the flyover states – and that kind of talent will be wrong for the material. I'd forget American money.'

  Michael had always found the financial pragmatism of the commercially inclined producer an ugly thing. It was so sure of itself. So smugly bottom-line.

  'You really think so?'

  'Without a doubt.'

  'That's interesting.'

  'It's called reality, Michael.'

  He bridled. Adamson was patronising him. 'Actually, Nick, the project has money attached.'

  'Oh yeah?'

  'Oh yeah.'

  There was a moment's silence.

  'Like what money?'

  He paused for effect. He was beginning to enjoy the call. 'Like twenty million dollars. Shane Hammond to star and direct.'

  There was a click. Adamson's voice was suddenly close, immediate. He was on the cordless.

  'This is a Shane Hammond picture?'

  Michael smiled to himself but kept the smile out of his voice. 'That's what's on offer.'

  There was silence, the sound of a man checking his surprise.

  'Actually . . . Hilldyard turned them down.'

  'What!'

  'Coburn Agency made an offer for the rights. Hilldyard declined.'

  Adamson was aghast. 'He declined!'

  'He did.'

  'That's like pissing on God. What did they do? Pull his chain with some low-ball offer?'

  'Three-quarters of a million dollars.'

  'Jesus! Why?'

  'He wasn't interested.'

  'He walked on the offer?'

  Michael did not want to complicate matters by describing Hilldyard's attitude. 'He's a serious novelist.'

  'Allergic to money or what!'

  'Allergic to Hollywood, I exp
ect.'

  Adamson broke into nervous laughter. 'Coburn Agency must be in shock.'

  Adamson was in shock, too. In a bizarre way it was flattering to have astonished him. His cool so quickly switched to avidity. He was experiencing a paradigm shift. In Adamson's scheme of values nobody turned down film-star interest and serious dollars for reasons of principle. There were no principles that huge or inflexible. Except there were, and he was going to hear about them.

  'D'you know Rick Weislob?' asked Michael.

  'Mickey Mouse meets Jaws. Guy with a conk like a dorsal fin. He's a tough little fucker, and we call him the turd bullet.'

  'He phoned Hilldyard at his home in Italy.'

  'Oh shit!'

  'He didn't make a good impression.'

  There was a dry laugh. 'Hey, listen. I'm waging war with Weislob on a Mike Carnegie project. If he suffers, I open champagne.'

  'It's not just Weislob. Hilldyard has misgivings about any kind of film.' Michael noted his easy assumption of Hilldyard's viewpoint.

  'I can understand that.'

  'What I wanted was your opinion on Shane Hammond's clout. On the reality of the financing, which hasn't been checked out. On the prospects for the integrity of a film set up like this.'

  'I'm hitting the study. Just hold it.'

  There were background noises, the slamming of a door. He pictured Adamson throwing himself into a swivel chair, bringing himself into focus on the project, picking up a different phone.

  'It's interesting. Let's break it down.'

  Adamson's voice became steadier, truer, his accent less mid-Atlantic. His speech was studded with American slang and movie-biz patois, but the cruiser intonation fell away, revealing an executive edge, as if he had plugged himself into a socket on the desk and were now offering acumen on stream. Michael sensed the real Adamson ticking over: someone who could talk the language with its flaky equivocations and bullshit phrases while seeing through to the bottom line. The sensibility was wide, the delivery fast, but the mind dealt in hard terms with the available data. Adamson's was the style of the entrepreneur in love with his job.

  'Basic questions are easy. Is Hammond bankable? Yes, he's roof-liftingly hot. He's flavour of the month, maybe the year. He's the lolly everyone wants to suck, and there isn't enough to go round. Second question: Can he raise cash for an extreme art-house picture? Yeah. I have no problem with that. Right now he points to something, it's greenlit. Your third question's more difficult. Will it be any good? Two sub-questions. Will the money give him rope, director's cut, all that bullshit? Depends on who the patsies are. If it's some nichey distributor, yes. A studio, probably not. If it's European consortium money, God fucking knows. But if Coburn Agency's hooked into Japanese credit lines, some kind of yellow peril chequebook, those guys can be burned for trillions without batting an eyelid. And maybe there's a trade. In return for a twenty-million-dollar write-off on the art-house flick they get Hammond's next blockbuster. If so, he'll have rope. Now if he gets rope will he make a Palme d'Or meisterwerk or a piece of shit? Hammond, OK, can act. That's if you throw him a Shakespeare script. Hammond as director is untested. Let's say the guy has the best intentions in the world, the fruitiest vision of a beautiful movie, what happens when the script freaks out? What happens when the accountants get the jitters and start walking over the set? What happens when some boardroom ego-features wants to fuck with our star? Will he kick arse, hold to a course, or return to his caravan for a sulk? You understand what I'm saying? Hammond is a talent entity, not a producer entity. And what this project's going to need is a strong creative producer to see his vision through the system and on to the screen.'

  Michael cleared his throat. He was amused by the heaviness of the hint. 'I assume Coburn Agency will exec produce.'

  'They're agents, Michael. They eat old coins for breakfast.'

  'Maybe Hammond has a choice.'

  'Evidently not. No producer worth his salt would let Weislob near Hilldyard. And if Hilldyard's sticky your producer's got to be English, in tune with literature and streetwise here.'

  There was a significant pause.

  Michael had the sure feeling that Nick Adamson was not in tune with anything Hilldyard would call literature.

  'Frank Coburn screwed up. The right producer is the guy that can reassure Hilldyard, deliver the rights and work with Hammond.'

  There was no need to respond to such arrant self-promotion.

  Adamson had the bit between the teeth, but he let the line run open for Michael's reaction.

  'Thanks for your advice, Nick.'

  'What's your role, Michael?'

  'I don't have a role.'

  'You represent Hilldyard?'

  'No!'

  'You're a producer, right?'

  Adamson could have no idea, not the faintest sense, of his situation, and it amused him to hear the word 'producer' raised as an attempt to fix him with certain motives and attitudes.

  'You guys are buddies?'

  'I'm working with Hilldyard. I have more access to his concerns than Rick Weislob. There's been a fresh approach.'

  'From whom?'

  'Indirectly from Hammond.'

  'OK. Right.'

  'Which I'm sure he'll turn down. But just in case, I want to know what the considerations might be if he were interested. In order to advise him. I have absolutely no personal interest.'

  'Am I reading you? On one side of the ring we have el supremely bankable movie star and a shitload of spons. On the other side is one bruiser of a novelist, like Nobel time, every word eternal, and in the middle with the whistle in his mouth, you.'

  'No!'

  'You're the ref. You have to be satisfied?'

  'Hang on, Nick. I'm acting on my own initiative.'

  'But you're in there, which means he trusts you.'

  He flinched at the crassness, the intrusiveness. 'I have no position on this project.'

  There was strangeness in the silence.

  'I'd say you have a great position.'

  Michael controlled his annoyance. 'My responsibility is to Hilldyard.'

  'That's semantic.'

  'I'm acting on his behalf!'

  'Absolutely.' Adamson changed gear. 'And I respect that.'

  'I'm trying to protect him.'

  'Which you must.'

  He glanced at the manuscript on the bed. 'I will.'

  There was an enduring silence on the line.

  'What I said before. Don't misunderstand me. There's authors and authors. I think we all know the diff between some marginal Booker Prize literary bullshit scribe and James Hilldyard. We're talking about a contemporary classic writer. And if anybody wants to do a Hilldyard title, it's not because they want to nick the plot, whip the characters and save themselves effort on a story, it's because they want Hilldyard's feel onscreen. A different ballgame. A labour of love. I think we're into a special category right from the start, where fidelity is the watchword. And you need someone with integrity to push that through. Somebody who has a cultural link with the material. Yeah, but can also keep the suits out of the editing room.'

  Adamson could switch on the lip-service with all the alacrity of a DJ parleying in a chart-buster. He was all vision, all salesmanship, and as such was an interesting manifestation of what happened to an Oxford education when dropped in pure commercial waters. He had adapted himself into alignment with the market and its rhetoric. Content for him was just an extrapolation of product; 'integrity' a buzz word; 'artistic truth' a brand tool.

  Michael decided to push harder. 'Hilldyard would get script approval?'

  'Um . . . I wouldn't go that far.'

  'You'd want him to approve the script?'

  'Oh, most certainly.'

  'What's the problem?'

  'There's no problem. Scripts are difficult to read.'

  Michael frowned. 'I think he can read!'

  Adamson cleared his throat. 'James Hilldyard can read. But see it in context. We'll need a screenwriter.
He'll cost two hundred and fifty thousand dollars for two drafts and a set. He'll take six months. Everybody'll roll up sleeves. A huge effort will be made bottling the spirit of the book. There'll be lots of behind-the-scenes prep. Thousands of dollars will be spent getting key players on contract, lining up completion bonding, negotiating net profit definitions. Even before pre-production the money's sunk half a million greenbacks, maybe more. Can you really see the corporate accountants switching on that kind of dough if a little old author halfway across the planet can pull the plug? No. There'd have to be trust. And we have a word for it. Consultancy. The right to express an opinion. The great man can read each draft of the script and if he hates what he reads we hunker around, listen to the oracle and pay attention because we want to satisfy. He makes notes. Doyen scriptwriter dwells on the notes. Quality achieved by collaboration not prescription. It works when the elements are first class, which they will be.'

  Apart from Adamson, thought Michael, if he were involved, which he wouldn't be.

  'Hey, you'd be the perfect person to mediate that process.'

  'I'm not mediating anything,' said Michael.

  'I think it's very exciting.'

  There was a durable pause.

  'What happens now?'

  Michael sighed against the stress of an incompatible mind.

  'What's your telephone number?'

  He hesitated a moment too long.

  'Michael, I understand your position.'

  'I don't have a position.'

  'I understand that, too. I hear that.'

  'I have a special relationship. For good reasons I need to remain uninvolved.'

  'Hey, look. While you're thinking it through let me use my network over here. We got the British mafia to tap into. Plus an insider contact at Coburn's. I mean, let's just see how real this project is on the ground.'