by Tom Vitale
While Tony talked to the camera, Josh and I were reading. After Carl’s impromptu performance, I’d texted Greta that we needed to know everything possible about GoldenEye and James Bond Beach and Tony knew she was working on it. By the time we got back to the villa The GoldenEye Environmental Impact Assessment Study was waiting in my inbox. It made clear the government had in fact licensed James Bond Beach to the hotel for its expansion project, and James Bond 007 was no longer to be designated a fishing beach.
“Restricted use of the lagoon is an essential component of the GoldenEye experience,” I said, reading from the document. “There are several advantages to this, including the protection of a marine sanctuary and enhancement of security and safety for guests.”
“Ouch,” Josh said. “It says here several permits have been issued in order to ‘Incorporate the fishermen into the ambience and essence of the development.’”
“Wait, so this actually explains what happened today, right?” I asked.
“Where’s my cocktail? Where is my cocktail?” Tony interrupted.
“Umm… it’s coming right now,” I said.
“If this were a Bond film, you’d be being torn apart by piranha now,” Tony said. “Piranhas would be swimming in ten different directions with your genitals.” Fortunately, Nicholas arrived shortly with a rum punch. “Thank you, sir. Life is beautiful,” Tony said. “I’d like twelve more of these, please.”
Despite really only wanting to get high, have a vacation of sorts, we’d somehow basically stumbled backward into our own real-life Bond film. Josh and Mr. Papers had been right. And we were getting it all on film.
“How do you do this and be a good person?” Tony said to the camera, sipping his rum punch. “If you wanted to spend three months out of the year in a hammock, looking out at the Caribbean, on a secluded beach like this. Could you do that and also be a good person? No, you—you have to do bad things to do this, right? James Bond’s a hustler, he gets this for a couple of days before he moves on to the next location. The guy who lives here is the Bond villain. That’s what I’ve been missing. Ian Fleming was much closer to Blofeld or Hugo Drax. Those guys had lots of leisure time, sitting in hammocks, trying to figure out how to take over the fuckin’ world. Lot of downtime in world domination. Bond was a working-class motherfucker.” Tony looked out over the ocean and sighed.
“BAD NEWS,” JOSH SAID WITH a worried look on his face. “I just heard from Greta. She says the PR agency representing Margaritaville is ready to move forward with the shoot. They love the show and have agreed to our release.”
“No fucking way,” I said in utter disbelief. “Are you kidding me?”
Damn, damn, damn. I glared at Mr. Papers. This was a double-double backfire. Not only had I inadvertently given Greta the opportunity to shine by pulling off the impossible, more worrisome, now we actually had to film at Margaritaville, even though we’d realized Margaritaville was just a red herring. Most of all, I was concerned Tony wasn’t going to take it well.
“I’m sorry, but it seems like the permission for Margaritaville somehow came through,” I said, bowing my head in shame. “But we have a plan. Josh will play oversize tourist number one. He’ll represent the worst-case outcome—the all-inclusive resort douche tourist threatening to take the beach from the Jamaicans.”
“Blofeld actually said yes?” Tony muttered. He thought for a long moment looking out at the ocean, hands folded behind his back. “Well, excellent. Wasting away in Margaritaville? Too slow for my tastes. Let me help you with that. Bleeding away in Margaritaville is more like it. I don’t expect you to talk, Mr. Buffett, I expect you to die!”
Tony stayed at GoldenEye while the rest of the crew headed behind enemy lines, prepared to attach limpet mines to the hull of the SS Margaritaville.
“You ready?” I asked through the door.
“Oh, boy, ready as I’ll ever be,” Josh said, emerging from the men’s room, his six-foot-five king-size frame squeezed into a teensy-weensy “Jamaica Me Crazy” T-shirt with cut-off sleeves, sunglasses, and floppy straw hat.
“You look amazing!” I said. “Okay, let’s do this!”
I added enough money to the jukebox to keep the “Margaritaville” song playing on repeat for twelve hours. We filmed Josh in slow motion emerging from the ocean, double fisting margaritas, eating a massive plate of nachos, line dancing with the friendly and totally accommodating staff, as well as enjoying the waterslide—basically, just having one hell of an awesome mini vacation, all of it in extreme slow motion. Josh nailed it, the most fun takedown imaginable. When we finished filming, we all sat down for a crew meal. This bunch of ultra-highly experienced, battle hardened, jaded, off-the-beaten-track travel pros all had a fantastic time at Margaritaville. Not that we could ever tell Tony.
“HOW HAS NICHOLAS BEEN TAKING care of you?” our mysterious host asked when we finally met. “Everything to your liking, I presume?” Blackwell was dressed in all black and spoke in a refined British meter while continuously twirling the skewer in his rum punch, crooked pinky finger slightly raised. The only thing Blackwell lacked was a long-haired white cat to stroke. He maintained a home at GoldenEye and had invited Tony to his private bar tucked away in a secluded grotto in the cliffs. Carl was there wearing gold silk pajamas. He sat cross-legged and mute, blowing clouds of smoke from a pipe. Everything was right out of evil villain central casting. Or maybe I was just so stoned it looked that way. But I don’t think so.
“Welcome,” Blackwell said when Tony arrived.
“Long overdue,” Tony said. “I’ve been living in your house.”
“So have you been getting any good material while you’ve been here?”
“Oh yeah. Eating well. Beautiful scenery. Nice people.”
“Rum punch?” Blackwell offered.
“Yes, I’ll have one of those,” Tony said. “You grew up in paradise. You had a successful career signing some of the coolest bands like ever. Life has been pretty good. What thrills you?”
“I’m trying to break a little resort town here,” Blackwell said. “Something that filters into the town, filters into the parish, filters into the country.”
“Is it an inevitability that basically all of the Caribbean is essentially going to end up as a service economy?” Tony asked.
“Well, yes, I think, yes, I think mainly so… service and agriculture,” Blackwell said. “Bring people here and give them fresh food, Jamaican food, that’s my mantra.”
Chirping of tree frogs mixed with the sound of waves crashing against the coral. There was a shake of ice cubes as Blackwell’s butler prepared another round of rum punches. Carl exhaled a cloud of smoke, and Blackwell twirled the skewer in his nearly empty drink.
“If life were a Bond film, who would you be?” Tony asked.
“Well, there’s only one hero in a Bond film,” Blackwell said with a hint of a smile.
“You wouldn’t be the…” Tony stammered, a bit surprised by Blackwell’s answer. “You wouldn’t put yourself in any other role? You’d be the hero?”
“CAN YOU BELIEVE BLACKWELL ACTUALLY said he’d be James Bond?” Tony asked in disbelief when we retreated to the Fleming villa.
“We better be careful on the roads or we might get forced off a cliff by a Blackwell Industries truck,” Zach said. Then, switching to his evil villain voice, “What a pity… we warned them the roads were dangerous.”
Leaving GoldenEye, we headed further east along the rugged coastline toward Port Antonio. Once a getaway for the wealthy and Hollywood elite, the area had been nearly forgotten when the airport was built on the other side of the island. Known affectionately as Porto, it was as stunningly beautiful as it was undeveloped. While there, we filmed a Bond Party that Tony didn’t go to, but we did make good use of the fire eaters, voodoo priest, and dance troupe. We even filmed that underwater Bond opening credit sequence. Generally, a great time was had spending Greta’s money. But with several days left to fill, the show was missing some
thing.
“I think I know what Mr. Papers is looking for,” Carleene said. “Winnifred is the only public beach left in Portland. A woman, Cynthia, has a cook shop there, and she’s fighting in court to keep the beach from being turned into a resort.”
“If the food’s good, I’m sold,” I said.
We arranged a saltfish and ackee scene with Cynthia and her friends Joy and Marjorie—fellow beachside food purveyors and compatriots in the fight to save Winnifred Beach. Arriving at the beach was like a mirage: an unspoiled, untouched swath of coastline. White sand, clear water, locals relaxing and having fun, and plenty of beachside food options. And like a mirage, Winnifred Beach was also in danger of disappearing.
“Winnifred Beach is a public beach. It has been one of the best beaches in Jamaica,” Cynthia said. Not only did she run her restaurant every day, but she’d taken on the entire Jamaican government in a legal battle that was stretching into seven years. “The government want to make like a resort here. And when they make a resort, you know that it is not public for everyone to come in because they want to build hotel and villas around. So, it won’t be open like a lot of people could come and enjoy it like now.”
“I mean that would be sort of ridiculous if Jamaicans can’t go to the beach in Jamaica,” Tony said.
“Fight on, fight on,” Cynthia said. “Here is where we relax. When we have our problems, we come down here and—”
“Take a swim,” Joy said. “And you lay back.”
“And things are better,” Marjorie said.
“Well, it’s a beautiful beach,” Tony said. “I gotta come back here. Better yet, in my bathing suit tomorrow.” Tony genuinely seemed to be having a good time, and if he was serious about returning, then we’d have our missing last scene of the show. “Well, good luck in your struggle,” Tony said. “Because I would like to say, what kind of monstrous human being or organization would displace the people from their own beach?”
“If they take this away from us, we would live like we’re in prison,” Joy said, getting emotional. “’Cause when the time is hot, we would have nowhere to come and swim.”
“I would like to be your minister of propaganda,” Tony said. “I would like to direct the public relations campaign against this.”
And Tony was true to his word. We returned to film an even bigger feast on Winnifred Beach. He really liked those ladies and their beach and genuinely hoped to bring attention to their cause.
The last day of the Jamaica shoot happened to be Tony’s fifty-eighth birthday. Tony’s father had died at fifty-seven—as had a string of male relatives before him—so we were all relieved that Tony had outlived the Bourdain Curse. Josh, Mr. Papers, and I figured the best gift for the man who had everything was to cancel the day’s shoot and go to the beach for some prime ray time. It’s strange how often Tony gave the impression of being on a permanent vacation, because in reality he never stopped working. He only got to lie in a hammock or do all those amazing looking vacation-y things if there was a camera in his face. But there was nothing relaxing to him about a camera. Even Bond got to enjoy the moments for himself.
TWENTY-THREE DAYS EARLIER, TONY HAD been looking histrionically bored as the cameras followed him on a tour of the Milad Tower, Iran’s equivalent of the Seattle Space Needle and a symbol of national pride.
“Upon completion, the Milad Tower was considered the fourth tallest freestanding telecommunications tower in the world,” our government-approved tour guide droned in clear but stilted English. “As you see, it offers breathtaking view of Tehran set against the Albroz Mountains.”
Tony rolled his eyes and audibly sighed, then huffed. If anyone got to make a fuss, it was me, I thought. It was the latest installment of what was nearing a decade of my birthdays spent on the road. Unlike previous years, I put my birthday on the schedule in BOLD ITALIC CAPS to make sure Tony didn’t forget.
“Good morning!” I had said enthusiastically at breakfast. Any second now the attention was sure to start rolling my way.
“So, how old are you, Tom?” Tony asked, looking up from his coffee.
“Thirty-four today.” A smile of anticipation broke across my face.
“You know, that’s the same age Jesus was when he died and look at all he accomplished,” Tony said, not missing a beat. “So, why the hell are we filming an ‘observation deck scene’?”
As much as I hadn’t appreciated the joke, it was pretty damn funny. However, I managed not to laugh. After the observation deck tour we stuck around getting b-roll shots of tourists and the view. The sky was a strange color; lightning flashed in the distance. Putting out my cigarette, I noticed everyone was pointing, taking pictures, and filming with their phones. I looked and saw some sort of sepia-tinged cloud stretching clear across the horizon. There was a low wail, the breeze began to pick up, and whatever it was, it seemed to be getting closer, and fast.
“There’s a sandstorm coming!” Zach called from behind his camera.
I ran over to grab Tony from inside. By the time we got back out, a massive sand spout was nearly upon us, and conditions had intensified to a whirlwind. The cameras kept rolling as security guards started pushing people inside for cover.
“Here it comes!” Tony said.
We made it inside just in time. As the doors closed behind us, a wall of pressure hit the building with a thud and my ears popped. The sky darkened as the sun disappeared and the floor started moving beneath my feet. Coin-operated binoculars on the observation deck violently rattled in the wind. Lights flickered. What a great scene this was turning out to be!
“Is this normal?” I asked.
“This is the first time that we have experienced such a thing!” our guide said in what looked like shock, grabbing at her hijab. Then the realization of what was happening hit me. This has never happened before was not the sort of thing you wanted to hear from a nervous flight attendant, or in this case your panicked tour guide when you’re in the middle of a fucking tornado atop a 1,000-foot-tall curio. The cameras kept rolling as the floor swayed ever more dramatically, buffeted by winds from all sides. When the lights cut out, they momentarily revealed a sickening murky green sky before jittering back on. Pieces of the building started to sheer off, catching in the swirl. Benches and larger panel cladding dislodged and crashed along the observation deck, threatening to ricochet into floor-to-ceiling windows.
“Stand away from the glass!” Tony shouted.
“Leave now! Leave now!” a security guard yelled over the howling. “It’s dangerous!”
A sense of fear and dread deeper than I’d ever experienced before reached up and clenched around my neck as we were ushered into a stairwell. I could now officially add skyscrapers to my list of phobias. Everyone was running down the steps carrying film gear as the structure groaned and lights continued to flicker on and off.
“Please stop filming!” our guide cried, distress in her voice. My mind raced with images of shady contractors, substandard steel girders, and how it was common practice to mix sand into the concrete in so many countries, then when an earthquake hits, collapse! I’m not proud to admit it, but at one point I whimpered something like, “The building is going over! The building is going over!”
Hanging green emergency exit signs pendulated, caught as we were in the middle of the tempest. I thought of lighting a cigarette. What did it matter? I was sure I was going to die on my birthday.
Like all storms, eventually this one passed, and though it took some damage, needless to say, the Milad Tower did not fall.
That night we all went out for an off-camera meal to a banquet hall. On discovering we were from America, the restaurant owner came over to welcome us personally.
“He says he usually likes to put the flags of foreign guests at the table,” our fixer Afshin translated. “He apologizes, he is all out of American.”
Moose and Afshin must have informed the owner it was my birthday, because at the end of the meal a cake made its way to our t
able and all 200 people in the restaurant—led by the house band—began joyously singing the familiar “Happy Birthday” song in a mix of English and Farsi. I’d have to say it had been perhaps the most memorable birthday of my life. As I got ready to make a wish and blow, Tony leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Nice to see they went for candles over burning mini toothpick American flags.”
BACK IN JAMAICA, TONY WAS lying in a hammock tanning with no camera to bother him, no content to deliver. He generally hated his birthday, but today he looked genuinely happy. We ordered bad pizza and had a cooler full of Heineken and Red Stripe. As the sun set, we presented Tony with a rum cake covered in powdered sugar, slices of starfruit, and cocktail umbrellas. Written in chocolate, it read “Rum Lives Forever.” Tony smiled as he blew out his candles. It didn’t get much better than this, the sort of day you wished would never end.
The next morning Josh and I sat mostly silent—painfully hungover and exhausted—through three hours of nausea-inducing mountainous twists and turns across the island to the international airport in Kingston. With each curve we listened to a dozen or so mostly empty rum bottles and leaking forties clink and clank as they rolled from one side of the gear van to the other. Mr. Papers sat there looking at me with one of those superior “I told you so” expressions. What a bizarre month it had been, I thought. The emotional, confusing, and life-changing shoot in Iran, then off to Jamaica, where somehow every boneheaded stoner blunder seemed to have worked in our favor. I don’t think we could have got there sober. Even Greta’s penny pinching had been a part of the magic recipe. And, damn, we’d had a good time.
I didn’t know it yet, but the Jamaica episode would inspire a “Who gets to live in paradise? You do!” hotel promotion. More important, a judge ruled in Cynthia’s favor, and Winnifred Beach was saved from development. I don’t know if international attention from our Bond film helped, but it couldn’t have hurt.