Action!

by Robert Cort

  Matovich couldn’t still the flicker in his eyes. Quitting meant forfeiting a huge upside. And where could he go? He had lost his enthusiasm for directing, and twenty younger guns framed more stylish shots. If he wanted to continue as a factor in the movie business, this was it. “I don’t mind dealing with you, Richard. But I need help with Leventhal.”

  “We’ll see.” They pored over budget items until Matovich was too bored to fight back. Then Richard struck his killer blow. “I looked over your proposal regarding Ovitz.”

  Mike had planned a new company, called the Artists Management Group, which would represent actors, directors, and writers. “He’s going to own this town again,” Russ waxed enthusiastic. “So if we invest twenty million in AMG, we’ll get a share of his profits and preferential treatment with his clients.”

  “Pass.” Richard waited a beat before looking up from some meaningless document. “Anything else?”

  “Pass? Just like that?”

  “Just like that.”

  “Mike loves you.”

  “And I love him, but he’ll never command the power he once did. There’s the stench of failure about him, and we don’t need that rubbing off.” He winked.

  Involuntarily, Russ winked back.

  Richard spun around in his father’s old desk chair. The fit was perfect. After owning J2 for two months, he understood why the old man had fought so hard to keep his company. His only regret was that Grandma wasn’t around to see her dream come to glory. As always, she had called it right after Uncle Leon had died. With the Internet about to link the world, the possibilities were infinite for a company that created content.

  Kirk Kerkorian’s suite at the MGM Grand in Las Vegas was more opulent than the Sun King’s palace at Versailles. The gold leaf in the drawing room alone could have funded a movie studio. It would be a relief, AJ reflected, to have deep pockets to rely upon, permitting him to take risks on projects without fear that failure meant doom. That would be the situation if he accepted the financier’s offer to be chairman and CEO of MGM–United Artists.

  Kirk sucked on a Turkish cigarette. “I have to admit, I secretly rooted for Powerline.”

  “Sometimes honesty is not the best policy.”

  “Consider it a compliment. If you had to relinquish J-Squared, I knew I could bring you here. MGM hasn’t had a real lion since Louis B. Mayer.”

  AJ was too sharp a salesman not to know when the other guy was pouring it on, but too vulnerable not to love the dousing. Of all the calls he’d received—with their messages of sympathy and solicitation—Kerkorian’s was the most welcome. The guy was Wall Street savvy in ways that AJ couldn’t imagine, but he had no interest in actually operating an entertainment company. Uncontested division of labor promised a perfect partnership. But one doubt remained. Kerkorian had bought and sold Metro twice before, and AJ wasn’t interested in playing a shill for another of his “slam bam thank you ma’am” encounters with the business. “As long as you’re baring your soul, Kirk, are you in it for the long haul?”

  “Let my lawyers prove it to you.”

  Direct was a dead end. This guy was too smart to reveal any agenda other than enthusiasm. But AJ wanted no surprises about his plans. “If we proceed, I have a two-pronged strategy. First, we’ll carve a niche with the adult audience that wants quality product with complex stories. At the same time we’ll focus on family entertainment, G and PG movies that parents can take eight-year-olds to see. The other studios can kill themselves targeting teenagers with action and special effects.”

  Kerkorian appeared delighted. “We’re on the same page.”

  Yeah, yeah—it all made sense strategically. But what had AJ ready to jump was the promise of action. He could envision it. Outside his office executives, agents, and all manner of talent were already lined up, bidding for answers to their questions and requests. Lights blinked on every phone line. He was in conference with Jess, in battle with Andy. Fifteen times a year he’d dispatch filmmakers to the corners of the world, imagining the genius—and havoc—they might produce. Every day meant new deals, new dailies—a new lease on life. With a million things to do, he would have no time to think.

  MGM was here and now, up and running. Every other offer would require building from scratch. He didn’t have the patience for the years it took to generate a production slate, much less a new studio. The morning he took over at MGM he’d be a force again, which was the only way to live in Hollywood in your sixties. As for the chance it would provide to kick his son’s ass sideways . . . well, he had never run from a street fight—and had rarely lost one. Finally, the Mayer bullshit aside, seeing his name on that hallowed letterhead would be a gas.

  AJ allowed a mischievous smile. “It’s intriguing.”

  “We can get this done in time for you to announce it on your big night.” Kerkorian extended a hand with manicured nails and tobacco-stained fingers. “What do you say?”

  “Are you going to be sick?”

  AJ jerked his head from between his legs and smiled wanly at Bob Rehme. “In front of a billion people? Relax, I’ll be fine.” But his oatmeal complexion and glassy eyes gave the president of the Motion Picture Academy of Arts and Sciences small comfort. In Oscar’s history there had been indelible embarrassments, from Sally Field’s ditsy “You really like me” to Sacheen Littlefeather’s harangue on Indian rights while accepting for Marlon Brando. But those disasters would pale in comparison to the recipient of the Irving Thalberg Memorial Award passing out at the podium.

  “Forget ‘a billion people,’ ” Rehme counseled. “Think ‘a few friends.’ ”

  “Right.” How could he explain that stage fright wasn’t the source of his anxiety?

  As the broadcast paused for commercials, Jessica hurried over. “We’re next, Dad.” Although Gil Cates, the show’s producer, had argued for a celebrity presenter, AJ had insisted on Jess, and Cates had acquiesced, rationalizing that the father-daughter schtick would play for the female audience.

  “He looks like Albert Brooks in Broadcast News,” Rehme whispered to his daughter.

  “You would too if someone was blowing hot air in your pants.” She pushed aside the man with the dryer. “It’s dry and he looks fine.” As an afterthought Jess grabbed a powder puff from the makeup table and gave his forehead a final pat.

  “Thirty seconds.” An assistant shepherded them into position.

  AJ heard the show’s host, Billy Crystal, make another lame joke about Titanic’s director, Jim Cameron. Time twirled. He was dropping a seven-year-old Jess off at ballet . . . but then she was walking across the stage with the polished grace of a woman.

  “AJ Jastrow probably deserves tonight’s honor simply for surviving forty years in the film industry.” She won the audience with her opening line. “But he’s used his time well, energizing our business like the pioneer executives of our golden age. Ladies and gentlemen, a great producer—and a great dad.”

  The room darkened for the Reader’s Digest version of his life, replete with clips from his movies, plus tributes from actors and directors with whom he’d worked. And then Ray Stark, a past Thalberg winner—and the man who had nominated him for the award—spoke to the camera. “Congratulations, AJ. Your dad would be so proud of you tonight. I’m proud to be his stand-in.” The audience rose in ovation, and AJ stepped forward into his paragraph of movie history—without an idea what he was going to say.

  Jess smothered him with a hug. “Knock them dead, Daddy.” She handed over the statue, then slipped into the background.

  Stick to the script. A recitation of thanks, sufficient self-deprecation to caramelize his teeth, perhaps a choked-up pause, then a coy line like . . . “What a happy coincidence that the award I’m holding was named for the legendary head of production at MGM—the studio that I’ll be heading next week.” After an outburst of spontaneous applause, bow humbly and shake the Thalberg in the air. It would be so easy.

  Except for that damned broken faucet. AJ had b
een freshening up in the backstage men’s room when it had exploded, soaking his tux trousers. He’d dabbed at the mess with towels but still looked like a guy who’d pissed himself. His memories and imagination kicked into gear. In the mirror AJ’s reflection morphed into the desperate figure of Barney Balaban as he left the witness stand . . . stained in the same place. “I’ll never let that happen to me”—or words to that effect—wasn’t that what AJ had vowed in that Manhattan courtroom? But tonight he wasn’t an old mogul who’d stayed too long at the party. He was in his . . . late prime. Then again, was that your delusion until they bounced you out the door?

  Screw letting fear call the shots.

  Steph would be his inspiration. She was the reason he was here. If he hadn’t been so in love, he might have quit the business after Todd’s Garden Party. Third row center on the aisle. But in the glare of the spotlights, he couldn’t see her face.

  It wasn’t just fear.

  And his doubts weren’t just a whim of the last thirty minutes. They had hovered since the second act of his life had ended at the Beverly Hills Hotel. What the hell was he going to do in his third act? MGM was comfortably more of the same, but he had worked on too many movies not to know: repeating action was a recipe for disaster.

  How long had he been standing there? Long enough, he guessed, to give Rehme and Cates a heart attack. He already knew that experience. The tension in the Shrine wafted up to the stage. The loyal J2 crew must be bowing their heads in prayer. Even those cynics who regularly rooted for train wrecks willed him to speak.

  He glanced down at the statue. Cast from bronze, it was stumpy but heavier than an Oscar. Thalberg looked intense—not a guy having a very good time. Jesus, the genius kid had also died of a heart attack.

  As always, his daughter stood behind him, waiting calmly and loyally—a position that no longer felt right. And because it didn’t, AJ smiled. He knew exactly what he wanted to say—not just in his head but in his heart.

  “You would think that someone who spent his whole life in the movie business could learn his lines. But occasionally, it’s better to toss out the script and improvise.”

  The audience relaxed.

  “I have already told all the people dearest to me—the ones responsible for this award—how much I love them. So I’ll skip that part . . . and the next, which was boilerplate you’ve heard a thousand times. In fact, I’m going to take that long-standing Hollywood advice and cut to the chase.

  “Tonight I announce my retirement from the movie business.”

  People gasped. Nobody retired because . . . what else was there to do?

  “I do so because it’s always best to exit when you’re high, and for a movie producer, there is no higher than now. I go because new opportunities beckon—although I’m not sure exactly what they are. But principally I go because the future of the business I cherish lies not with me but with the talented people of the next generation—none more so than my daughter. It’s their time to step to the forefront and mine to stand back and applaud their triumphs.”

  AJ bowed to the audience—at least he’d practiced that—then took Jessica’s hand and started off the stage.

  She looked astonished. “A thousand bucks says you get so bored you’ll eat those words within the year.”

  It would be the easiest money he would ever make. “You’re on.”

  Steph feigned sleep. She even mock-snored. It was a convincing performance because she was exhausted after celebrating at the Vanity Fair party till three A.M. But her husband had awakened at seven, creating the kind of rooster racket whose sole purpose was finding company. He’d climbed for an hour on the StairMaster, showered, and dressed. But when he bombed down on the bed to tie his shoes, her charade ended. “Good morning, AJ. You’re up early.”

  “I’ve slept enough.”

  “An extra couple of hours won’t make you a bum.”

  “Who said anything about being a bum?”

  “No one.” He had—in his dreams. After the rush of his retirement speech and the bravado of bets, AJ must have realized the implications of his announcement. How sad that what should have been the most satisfying of mornings was only another Tuesday full of concern. But it was inevitable—AJ had been hard-wired for worry from birth.

  “What are you doing today?”

  She yawned. “Taping Wolfgang Puck giving the recipes for the dishes he made at last night’s party.”

  “Oh.”

  “But I’ve got some time now if you want to talk.”

  AJ waved her off. “I might go over to a couple of hotels and get comparative prices for Jess’s wedding . . . what’s that look?”

  At least he wasn’t going blind in his old age. “I’ve been waiting to organize her wedding since the day she was born—”

  “Okay, do it yourself, no problem.” He left to sulk over orange juice and a bagel.

  She rose to follow, as she had done for forty years, then realized the trap awaiting her in the kitchen. AJ wasn’t seeking a sympathetic ear or sage advice. No, he wanted an accomplice to flee the scene of the crime. But she liked her life the way it was. And whatever the solution to his problem, he had to find it. Benign neglect was best for both of them.

  AJ moped off to Riviera. It was crazy to have spoken so definitively last night. Not that he regretted passing on Kirk’s offer, it was just . . . he didn’t know what it was. The club was as dead as his mood. During the takeover battle his game had deteriorated, and when AJ muffed his long irons on the driving range, he fretted he was too old to find his touch again. When no fun members had shown up by early afternoon, he decided to play alone. Get used to it, he told himself.

  “I’m Scotty Landis.” His caddie had golf team good looks.

  “AJ Jastrow. You’re new?”

  “New to the Riv. I caddied up at a place called Pebble Beach.”

  “Nice track,” AJ replied casually. Stiff from last night’s dancing, AJ groaned putting his tee in the ground. On the way up he detected a smirk on Scotty’s face.

  The insult jump-started him. The club swept back, his hips turned like a teenager’s, then every muscle shifted forward in perfect sync and he crunched his drive two hundred and seventy yards down the first fairway. Striding past Landis, he noted raised eyebrows.

  “What do you do, Mr. Jastrow?” Scotty inquired upon reaching his ball.

  “Nothing much. I’m recently retired.” The words crackled and itched like a new shirt overstarched from the factory.

  “That’s my goal. As soon as I can.”

  “What’s the rush?”

  “I want to have fun and I don’t want to wait until I’m too . . .”

  “Too old like me?” Landis blushed. “Don’t worry, I won’t report you.” AJ boomed his fairway wood onto the green of the par five in two.

  His caddie’s skepticism faded. “What did you used to do?”

  The kid must have been out drinking last night or watching reruns of Seinfeld. “I was in . . . manufacturing.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  “Dreams.”

  He sank a forty-foot putt for an eagle. AJ had visited this zone before, when his body knew exactly what it had to do and his mind was present to enjoy the experience rather than confuse it. The state rarely lasted for more than a few holes, but on this late March afternoon, the bubble refused to burst. Hole after hole he flowed. As they approached the fourteenth, the sun was cutting through the rows of eucalyptuses, casting shadows like the fingers of God in an illustrated Bible. The hole was a par three, with the pin cut behind a bunker that had beckoned like Circe to fifty years of mis-hits. He swung and the ball bored through the air, disappearing over the edge of the trap onto the green.

  “You’re the man!” Landis cheered. “That should be close to the pin.”

  “I think it’s too long.”

  When they reached the green, the Titleist was nowhere to be seen. AJ checked the rough behind, while Scotty looked in the sand trap to make sure
their eyes hadn’t deceived them. They looked under leaves, behind rakes, under benches, in divots, up a tree, but all they found were someone else’s lost balls. Neither said a word but both began stalking the flag. At the last instant Landis hung back, leaving the moment of discovery to the man responsible. AJ peeked one eye over the rim. Nestled in the cup was a ball with his distinctive red-stripe marking.

  He waited for the jubilation, the urge to pump his fist, shout, dance a jig. But there was no surge, no thrill—just deep, abiding peace. AJ looked skyward to the person with whom he shared the triumph. “Capricious game, Dad.” He shook hands with Scotty, picked up his ball, and marched silently to the fifteenth tee. He had four holes to play and just enough daylight left.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I originally intended Action! to be a nonfiction history of the film business in the second half of the twentieth century. Jon Karp courageously gambled on my ability to accomplish that idea. A year later, when I announced over lunch that I wished to turn it into a novel, he glanced up from his salad—color still in his cheeks—and said simply, “Give it a try.” As my editor, his guidance and support at every step was one of the most remarkable examples of faith that I’ve witnessed in my twenty-eight-year involvement in the creative process.

  If you don’t know what you’re doing when beginning a book, then it’s crucial to have colleagues who do. Scarlett Lacey and Eric Hetzel, my associates in our film production company, applied their editorial skills to every page of every draft of the manuscript. In addition, Scarlett joined me in roaming through libraries compiling the research that informs the fictional events. Their assistance proved invaluable.

  As a producer I got to know Binky Urban while bidding on the terrific books she represents. It was a thrill when she cheerfully agreed to become my agent. I am indebted to her for educating me about the world of publishing, as well as for her creative suggestions.