by Tom Vitale
What I did know for sure at that moment, as I tried to keep from being sick, was that we’d never be able to go back to GoldenEye; and Mr. Papers might owe Greta an explanation when we sobered up.
Chapter Eleven
SHOOTING NIGHTMARES
TONY OFTEN SPOKE OF HOW THE CAMERA WAS A LIAR; SIMILARLY, THE edit was inherently manipulative. And he was right. As time went by, what we chose to show or not show in the finished episodes had a funny way of recasting what had really happened in my mind. The constructed retelling somehow became more real to me than the actual experience had been. I found myself forgetting what had really happened, and what I did remember became edited, as if it were the show.
In the wake of Tony’s death, I continued to be flooded with memories, both good and bad. Some that pushed their way in contradicted the versions of the trips I’d chosen to remember, ones I had previously blocked out. I wanted nothing to do with them, but they persisted.
I AWOKE FROM A NIGHTMARE—IT was about work, of course, something about missing the shot of our train running off the rails into a rice paddy. Jet lag and antimalarials make for cheap thrills. Cold comfort in the sweltering heat. My eyes blinked as I struggled to remember where I was. Bright light streamed in through the window. A fan was on, laboring to move the heavy tropical air. I saw my hastily half-packed suitcase. Last night slowly came into focus. Flashes of drunken revelry.
“Pretty crazy party, are you doing okay?” Jeff asked, forcing a smile.
“I want to go home,” I said, rubbing my neck.
“Yeah, man, do you remember trying to swim back to Kuala Lumpur last night?”
I did remember, and despite my best efforts I hadn’t made it very far.
“Hopefully Emong helped you get all the leeches off,” Jeff said. He averted his eyes. “Ummm… so Tony wants to see you.”
Hoping against hope this was somehow all a dream, I closed my eyes tightly… and opened them. Unfortunately, I was still in Borneo. We were here in the remote Iban village of Entalau retracing Tony’s steps from ten years ago. It was a special trip, one that I’d thought would be like living a dream. Instead, it had turned into a waking nightmare. Getting out of bed, I checked again for leeches before starting the 1,000-foot walk of shame toward Tony’s hammock “office.”
Tony’s first visit to Borneo in 2005 was a trip that had marked a turning point in his life and career, as well as mine. Back then No Reservations had just been commissioned by the Travel Channel and I’d been hired by the newly incorporated ZPZ to post-produce the first season. I’d be screening footage, writing voice-over, and working with the editors to craft each episode. That meant I’d spend all my time in the New York office, and the closest I’d get to traveling would be through the raw footage playing out on the edit room screen.
That trip to Borneo during the first season of No Reservations had been an emotional one for Tony. His marriage of twenty years was breaking up, and he’d fallen in love again and was feeling unusually poetic around the camera. Brand-new to the job, I’d sat in the edit room watching as the PD150 focused and Tony, on the banks of the Skrang River, had said,
Travel isn’t always pretty. It isn’t always comfortable. Sometimes it hurts, it even breaks your heart. But that’s okay. The journey changes you; it should change you. It leaves marks on your memory, on your consciousness, on your heart, and on your body. You take something with you. Hopefully, you leave something good behind.
Unfortunately, the footage was unusable because of an unrelenting dog barking in the background, but I transcribed what Tony said, repurposing it as a line of voice-over for the end of the episode, and it became my favorite quote about travel.
Tony’s words as well as the episode’s theme had been inspired by the Bejalai, an Iban philosophy about taking a journey of self-discovery. An indigenous group native to the vast jungles of Borneo, the Iban considered the Bejalai central to their culture. The general idea is you go on an adventure, and learn something about the world. When all is said and done, hopefully you’re better for what you’ve seen, and you share the knowledge you’ve acquired with your home village. The Iban then commemorate the experience with a hand-tapped tattoo, à la “travel leaves marks.” It was literally a perfect theme for an episode of TV about travel.
Back in New York the edit—my first—was going well and developing a distinctly cinematic arc. In addition to being practitioners of the Bejalai, the Iban had once been fearsome headhunters. Tony’s guide, Itam, was in his eighties, the tattoos on his fingers an indication he was one of the last surviving Iban to have engaged in the delicate art of taking heads. So of course Tony fell in love with him immediately. At the end of the trip, Tony and Itam sat beneath a bouquet of human skulls knocking back shots of rice whiskey. Before Tony left, Itam invited him to return for Gawai, a three-day-long raucous Iban drinking festival sort of like Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s combined. Tony thanked Itam warmly and promised to return.
Watching that raw footage, something clicked. I remember Tony and the crew hiking through sweltering jungle, blundering and wheezing up and down over steep, slippery, thorny, leech-infested bush. I didn’t really like damp jungle or leeches, but I realized I needed to be there. I’d never be happy in the comfort of an air-conditioned edit room. So I set about figuring out a plan to transition to the road crew. The rest, as they say, is history.
FOUR DAYS BEFORE MY WALK of shame to Tony’s hammock office, I’d been standing on the banks of the Skrang River watching the crew load up our fleet of colorfully painted longboats. This was Tony’s second trip to the jungles of Borneo; he was back to fulfill his promise to return for Gawai. I’d edited that first episode a decade ago, but this time I was going to live it.
“Okay, everyone, we’re fighting daylight,” Jeff called. He was producing the episode, and over the last year had proven himself to be a valuable creative collaborator on our trips to Madagascar, Beirut, and Greece. Jeff was gifted with homecoming king confidence, the laser focus of an ER resident, and according to Tony, “eyes like an Alsatian.” Best of all, Jeff had turned out to be a good friend. “Let’s carpe diem this shit and head out!” he said with a smile.
Resembling motorized canoes powered by 15-horsepower outboard engines, our longboats sailed over opaque jade-colored water that was turned a frothy greenish-white swirl at intervals by small cataracts. Short of a helicopter, the Skrang River was the only way to reach the many Iban villages located deep in the jungle, and we roared past other colorful longboats laden with cargo and revelers returning for the holiday.
We filmed boat to boat, pass-bys, action shots, and footage of fording the rapids. Tony drank Tiger beer while watching the late afternoon sun filter through the dense canopy. As the river snaked its way deeper into the jungle toward the longhouse, I thought about how I’d somehow been given a magic opportunity to step through the TV screen into the episode that in a lot of ways, for me, had started it all. On that long-ago trip, Tony had talked whimsically about how travel leaves marks. He’d delivered that wisdom at what had been the relative beginning of his traveling career. I was determined to outdo the original episode and coax an even more brilliant realization from Tony this time. Now, with another decade of experiences under his belt, he’d surely have something far more profound to share. He must have learned something in all those miles.
As dusk began to settle, the sky turned gray-pink, and we got shots of a magnificent rainbow stretching above the river. And much like the episode a decade ago, our boats arrived at Entalau just after dark.
THE NEXT MORNING WE AWOKE to find much had changed in the decade since Tony’s last visit. The old longhouse where the whole Iban village lived together under one roof in apartments off a communal hallway had been torn down and replaced by a newer one. The tribe had converted to Christianity and been convinced to bury their bouquet of skulls. Much of the jungle had been clear cut by loggers, and Itam was dead.
But here we were anyway, the cr
ew and the whole Iban village preparing to celebrate Gawai. Fred, our newest DP, and Todd set about filming b-roll after a quick stop to play ball with the Iban kids. Tony was situated in his hammock checking emails, thanks to Jeff having found the only bar of cell signal in the province. Meanwhile I was continuing to deal with a number of pressing concerns. We had decided to devote half the shoot to Gawai, but nothing was happening aside from repetitive drinking. At Gawai, everyone drinks. Kids, adults, the village elders, and especially honored guests like us. Every five feet, you’re obliged to accept another shot of lankau, a homemade rice whiskey only marginally lower octane than jet fuel and known to induce mildly hallucinogenic effects. It’s considered an insult to refuse, which is probably why our travel doctor here in case of emergency was lying passed out drunk on the floor.
In addition to that, I’d discovered that the translator-sidekick I’d brought along to the drinking festival was a recovering alcoholic and didn’t drink. Which didn’t really matter because, as it turned out, he also didn’t speak Iban. And none of the Iban spoke English. As if that weren’t enough, I didn’t have much to visually connect this visit to Itam—the narrative backbone of the episode. Worst of all, Tony had decided he didn’t want to go through with the Bejalai tattoo scene. I was counting on that damn tattoo!
I wanted to believe we’d been on a Bejalai, but deep down I was terrified the last decade had just been aimless wandering while making a TV show. On some level I’d convinced myself the tattoo would be proof there was meaning in the chaos.
I couldn’t say that to Tony so instead I pointed out how we’d structured the entire episode around the tattoo. But Tony didn’t seem to care because that’s what he called a “Tom problem,” and “don’t worry, we’ll fix it in post,” which meant I’d have to fix it in post and give up the next two months of weekends in the process. But I was really freaking out because travel was supposed to leave marks, not a feeling of emptiness!
Also, it was my birthday and everyone but Jeff forgot. Again. Suffice to say I was not reveling in the experience of being here and fulfilling a personal dream.
Festivals were one of the most challenging things we filmed, and this one had so much riding on it. One of my jobs was to be the eyes of the shoot, directing the cameras toward narrative elements needed for the edit. It was now the last night of Gawai, and with little to show for our efforts, I was unsuccessfully navigating a minefield of Iban hospitality, but still sober enough to spot the hitherto elusive widow of Itam. Ninety-five years old, she was knocking back shots from a handle of Johnnie Walker Blue with her preschool-age great-grandson. Now, that might have been a useful shot to bring back to New York, but, of course, there were no cameras to be found. Getting no response over the walkie, I rushed around desperately looking for the crew, going from apartment to apartment. Finally, I found everyone seated with Tony around a table relaxing, laughing, and enjoying something to eat.
Now, I worked very hard to arrange the schedule so that there was a proper one-hour-long break every six hours (maximum) and that days weren’t longer than twelve hours. If the Titanic hit an iceberg outside of the shooting window, I would think twice before asking anyone to get the shot if it happened outside of the allotted time. In return I expected the cameras to be on during our scheduled filming blocks, especially when I was struggling to eke out a story. Which, admittedly, was all the time. But anyway, this was not a crew break, and I was beyond stressed, and also now feeling left out.
“What the fuck are you guys doing?! I found Itam’s widow, get the fuck up, we need that shot!” I shouted.
Without question, I shouldn’t have had so much to drink, and I was totally out of line to speak that way to the crew. But my biggest mistake was doing it in front of Tony. I’d been pushing him for content all day, which always got under his skin. But drunken behavior and being “uncool” was even worse. Quite drunk himself, Tony got to his feet and yelled, “That is fucking it! You’re done, demoted. Jeff, you’re in charge. Tom, if I see you one more fucking time tonight, you’re off the show! For good! Now get upstairs to your fucking room and sleep it off.”
Tail between my legs, I was escorted to my prison cell. Cursing the heat and the mosquitos and the snakes and the leeches and the jungle and my “best fucking job in the world,” I tried to fall asleep. Worst birthday ever. I lasted roughly fifteen minutes hearing the increasingly rowdy festivities below, fretting over the cameras missing shots, before I caved and slinked downstairs to check. From the presumed safety of a darkened room, I squinted out at the party through the slats of a vented window.
Of course, having hawk vision, Tony zeroed in on my position immediately. Next thing I knew, he was barreling toward the room. I scrambled back against the wall as Tony charged through the doorway. In the dark, he stumbled over a couch, then lunged and tackled me, his hands closing around my neck. It all happened very fast. As I hit the floor, Tony squeezed as tight as he could. I didn’t fight back. I don’t know if I tried to scream or if I even could. I just looked up at his reddened face, veins inflamed, bloodshot eyes popping out of their sockets, his pupils darting back and forth like my dad’s used to when as a kid I’d done something really, really bad. The next thing I knew, the light switched on, and Jeff and Fred were pulling Tony off me, sputtering, his limbs flailing.
I don’t remember exactly what happened next, but the general impression was that it was my fault. I was led back upstairs, Tony still screaming. This time, a member of the local crew was assigned to stay with me, but I escaped again, slipping down to the river. I knew there was no way I could really make it all the way to Kuala Lumpur, but I had to get the hell out of there.
The next morning, as I walked to Tony’s hammock office, I was hungover, cloudy headed, chagrined. I felt like a line had been crossed. If he didn’t fire me, I had resolved to quit. Even if Tony apologized, there was almost nothing he could say that would make me change my mind.
Arriving at Tony’s hammock, I found he was engrossed in his iPad, responding to emails.
“We need to talk about what happened last night…” Tony said, flicking the ash from the end of his cigarette.
“Yeah, we do!” I said with uncharacteristic intention.
“We will never speak another word about it again,” he said without looking up. “Is that clear…?”
I stood in stunned silence, caught altogether off guard. This I was not expecting, and I was completely tongue-tied.
Tony peered up at me over his reading glasses for the first time, waiting for an answer.
“Okay then, good,” he said, taking my silence for acquiescence. “What time is that tattoo scene you want me to do?”
As instructed, we never spoke another word about it again.
AS THE MONTHS PASSED BY after Tony’s death, I was in the midst of a deep depression that only seemed to be getting worse. Maybe my brain had been protecting itself, shutting out emotions like the pop of an overloaded circuit breaker. What happened in Borneo was only one of many inconvenient realities that had been surfacing since Tony’s death, dramatically contradicted the made-for-TV version of how things were supposed to be.
I hated thinking about it, I hated that Tony had killed himself, I hated lying in bed doing nothing with my life, I hated the conflicting memories that kept flooding back no matter how much I tried to drown them with alcohol.
One night at the end of March, halfway into a handle of Johnnie Walker, I just couldn’t shake the horrifying image of Tony’s hotel room in France. I saw it whenever I closed my eyes, and I couldn’t make it go away. Feeling like I had no options left, I decided that, like on TV, I needed to reenact the crime scene. I went upstairs to the bathroom, removed the belt from my bathrobe, tied it around the doorknob, sat down and leaned back. I wasn’t attempting suicide; even in my inebriated state I knew not to tie the other end of the belt around my neck. I just needed answers. Lying on the floor, I stared up at the ceiling. Through tears, I checked the watch Tony had given
me. The time since having the idea to where I was now had taken less than five minutes. My experiment brought me a moment of peace. It made it easier to imagine what happened was some kind of an accident. Not like jumping off a bridge or putting a gun in your mouth. It wasn’t violent, it was so quick, so easy. And incredibly terrifying that it even seemed like a good idea to try to find out.
I needed to get the fuck out of the house. I called United Airlines and used some of my frequent flyer miles to book a one-way ticket leaving for Rome in a few hours. There was a guy I’d been seeing in Italy before Tony died, and a half-baked plan was formulating in my mind. If there were answers, or any kind of absolution anywhere, I would find it in Rome.
Chapter Twelve
ROMAN HOLIDAY
I LANDED IN ROME ON APRIL FOOL’S DAY, INTERESTINGLY ENOUGH. I found a room in a cheap hotel, and drank and smoked lying in the bed, staring up at black mold stains on the ceiling. Fuck. I’d gone all the way to Italy just to do the exact same thing I did at home. This must be what rock bottom looks like.
My phone buzzed with a text. It was Asia.“Tom, yes, it would be great to see you. Really. So happy to hear from you.” It all seemed clear to my addled brain now. I lit another cigarette and exhaled, watching the curls of smoke lose shape.
As the show got bigger, everything else in Tony’s life got bigger too. His fame, the stakes, the problems, the phobias, all grew at an exponential pace. In hindsight it’s clear how Tony had become more and more isolated and lonely, and more dependent on his relationship with Asia Argento. They’d been on-again, off-again for the two years before his death. She wasn’t only beautiful, fascinating, and exhilarating. Being famous, Asia understood Tony’s lifestyle, but the relationship was far from a honeymoon. I’d seen how intensely Tony seemed to love her, and how heartbroken he was each time she dumped him. As time went on, Tony’s moods oscillated along with the ups and downs of their relationship, an ever-amplifying cosine wave. When Tony was filming in France, they broke up and, according to the crew who were there with him, he became despondent. A couple days later Tony was dead. I wanted somebody to blame. If I was ever going to get on with my own life, I needed answers.