by Ben Greenman
He danced at the wedding in that condition.
Chapter 13
Choristers
DURING THE SHOW’S EIGHTH SEASON, THE PRODUCER, WHO HAD received a call from Dublin, set the news going that Bono would soon be arriving. When he would arrive—there was no saying.
“He moves in mysterious ways,” said Paula Abdul, who was wearing a lilac minidress. “But when he does come the place will be even crazier than it is now. It’s Bono. He really draws a crowd. So let’s make a special effort to get them ready. I want him to be proud of them, and of us. “
“Don’t worry about me,” said Simon Cowell, frowning.
“I won’t,” Paula Abdul said. “I’ll round up the others so we can get going.”
Simon Cowell was the main judge of American Idol, a competition where young singers attempted to earn a record contract and international fame. He was paid handsomely by the show. Simon Cowell was a man of confident deportment. His dark hair and cleft chin made him look like an important man. It was strange to see him, so dignified and imposing, turn shy in the presence of the established stars who visited the show as guest judges, and on one occasion refuse to come out of his dressing room because he could not face Elton John. Grandeur was more in keeping with his figure than humility.
On account of the rumors of Bono’s visit, the nine singers remaining in the competition took a number of extra practices.
Practice was held at a small building near the Kodak Theatre, and this is how it was conducted. Before the practice Randy Jackson and Paula Abdul talked to the young singers encouragingly and regaled them with stories about the music business. When Simon Cowell arrived, he came quickly to the front of the room and issued a series of sharp claps. The young men who were still in the competition, who had been sitting on the floor listening to the day’s songs, took out their earphones and stood slowly. The young women, who had been smoking just outside the doorway, came tramping in. They all took their places. Simon Cowell drew himself up, made a sign to enforce silence, and began issuing instructions.
“You cannot forget the lyrics. I hope you have studied.
“If you do not act like you belong here, you will not be here much longer.
“Song choice is vitally important in this competition.”
All this counsel had been given the week before and the week before that, repeated a thousand times and thoroughly digested, and it was gone through simply as a formality. The singers began to work through their songs. The judges watched the first performers, shook their heads, occasionally nodded. It was all as it was the day before; there was nothing new. The singers who were waiting their turn began to lose interest. There was some coughing and fidgeting. Earphones went back in ears. Simon Cowell called for a break, and went off to the side to speak to Randy Jackson. After a few minutes he stood back up and called the entire group to attention.
“There will be a slight change of plans. You will all be setting aside whatever song you have selected. Instead, you’ll sing a U2 song. There are lyric sheets in the corner.” A woman appeared in the corner of the room and shook a sheaf of papers. “Go pick one and let’s get started. You don’t need to get the words exactly right. These are mostly songs that you know. Just give them your best try. Be spontaneous.”
The first singer, a woman, tried her hand at “All I Want Is You.” When she reached the chorus, an expression of benevolence and amiability overspread Simon Cowell’s face, as though he were dreaming of a lovely meal.
“Next singer!”
It was a man, attempting “Where the Streets Have No Name,” and he was not as successful: Simon Cowell’s face expressed alarm and even horror.
But then came “With or Without You” and then “One,” both sung so well that the other singers stopped fidgeting and gave them their full attention. The production assistants, who were always busy copying lyrics and jotting down notes, abandoned their work and fell to watching the performances. After a confused version of “Angel of Harlem” and an uneven “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For,” Simon Cowell wiped the sweat off his brow and went up to Randy Jackson in excitement.
“It puzzles me,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “Why is it that young singers are up one minute and down the next? You can’t tell whether they are finally grasping a song or if that understanding is a put-on, like so much else about them. Were you choking, or what?” he asked, addressing one of the female singers, a tall brunette with hair so straight it looked ironed.
“Why?”
“Because of your voice. It rattles like a pan under a car. What is Bono going to think when you take his song and treat it like an advertising jingle? I would be surprised if you are here a week from now.”
“You look a little tired,” said Paula Abdul.
“Are you still treating this competition like a big party? Maybe you should spend less time trying to attract the attention of the boys. If that’s what you want to do, you can do that on any street corner in the town you’ll be returning to soon enough.”
“Don’t get so worked up,” said Randy Jackson. “I’ll talk to her.”
Randy Jackson took the girl off to one side. “Just try to concentrate. It’s a big week coming up. You’ve heard the rumors about Bono. This is important for all of us.”
The brunette scratched her neck and looked sideways toward the window, as though the words did not apply to her.
The singers went on in this impromptu fashion for the rest of the afternoon, trying their hands at other songs: “Bullet the Blue Sky,” “Stuck in a Moment You Can’t Get Out Of,” even “Numb.” For the most part they sang smoothly and with feeling, even the tall brunette.
“You know, Randy,” Simon Cowell said. “Maybe we should change things entirely, have them perform an album in full, one singing the first song, the next the second, and so on.”
“No, no. Let them sing from whatever album they want. If it seems too calculated, it may feel strange to all of us.”
The group took another break. There was again a great blowing of noses, coughing, turning over of pages, and fiddling with phones. The most difficult part of the practice was next: “group sing,” in which the contestants performed one song together, in rounds. Simon Cowell had put two choices before the group, “Beautiful Day” and “Stay (Faraway, So Close).” Whichever the group learned best would be sung before Bono. During “group sing” Simon Cowell’s face reflected a high pitch of enthusiasm. Expressions of benevolence were continually alternating with expressions of alarm.
“Don’t do the chorus that way!” he muttered. “Try to start at the same volume that the singer before you ended. Make sure you understand the lyrics, at least a little bit.”
His words were launched at the young men and women like missiles. His eyes were closed more than they were open. On one occasion, carried away by his feelings, he raised a hand as if he were going to strike the singer closest to him, though he did not bring it down. But the contestants were not moved to tears or to anger: they realized the full gravity of their task.
After “group sing” came a minute of silence. Simon Cowell, red, perspiring, and exhausted, leaned against the wall near the door, and then turned upon the contestants tired but triumphant eyes. He let the silence spread to fill the room. It was a form of approval. Then, to his immense annoyance, the door opened and Kara DioGuardi came into the practice room. She was the fourth judge, a new addition to the show, and as she had not yet learned to fit in with the other three, she often arrived late to practice. She had a contemptuous grin on her face.
“Go ahead,” she said. “Get back to group sing. I was outside listening, and I don’t think Bono’s going to like it.”
Randy Jackson looked around nervously and twiddled his fingers.
“Come on,” he muttered. “Don’t start.”
After “group sing” the contestants reflected on the songs they had chosen, and what they meant, and whether or not they would keep that same selection for
the night of the live performance. Then practice was over. The contestants went to eat and to nap, and they reassembled in the evening for another practice. And so it went that day and the next.
On the third day, the show’s producer received a note that seemed to confirm Bono’s arrival. The lights in the Kodak Theatre were turned off and on, the sound system checked, and the full band began to rehearse. Simon Cowell couldn’t sleep well, though he couldn’t say whether it was from delight or alarm. Kara DioGuardi went on grinning.
The day before the live show, Randy Jackson burst into Simon Cowell’s dressing room. His hands shook and his eyes looked faded.
“I was just talking to the producers,” he said, stammering. “They are still negotiating with Bono. I asked them if he’s going to sit in and judge the final rehearsals along with the broadcast, and they said he might just send a videotaped message. A videotaped message?”
Simon Cowell turned crimson. He would rather have spent two hours listening to Paula Abdul speak than have heard those words. He did not sleep all night. He was not so much mortified at the waste of his efforts as at the fact that Kara DioGuardi would give him no peace now with her mockery. Kara DioGuardi was delighted at his discomfiture.
The next morning, all through rehearsal, she was casting significant glances down the table at Simon Cowell. When they took a break she put her hand over her microphone and said:
“No wonder Bono has better things to do.”
After the rehearsal, Simon Cowell went home, crushed and ill with chagrin. He told himself several times that he could not continue on like this. “I must leave the show,” he said. “I must leave the show.” He made a list of possible replacements for himself and tore it up. Again he could not sleep, and he went down to the lobby. The elevator opened to show Kara DioGuardi. Her face was red.
“Hold on, Simon,” she said. “Wait a minute. Don’t be mad. You are not the only one. I am in this too. When the producers were on the phone with Bono trying to decide if he’d come or send a taped message, he called me Carrie. They corrected him, and you know what he said? ‘You know which one I mean,’ he said. ‘That bloody loose bit.’ A big star, and that’s how he treats me? Let me buy you a drink.”
And the enemies went to the bar arm in arm.
Chapter 14
A Classical Student
BEFORE SETTING OFF FOR HER AUDITION, LINDSAY LOHAN KISSED all the movie posters. Her stomach felt as though it were upside down; there was a chill at her heart, while the heart itself throbbed and stood still with terror before the unknown. What would she get that day? An offer? A callback? Six times she went to her mother for her blessing, and, as she went out, asked her sister to pray for her. On the way to the audition she gave a homeless man five dollars, in the hope that the five dollars would atone for her ignorance, and that she would not forget her lines or what her character was feeling.
She came back from the audition late, between four and five. She came in and noiselessly lay down on her bed. Her freckled face was pale and looked even thinner than usual. There were dark lines beneath her eyes.
“Well, how was it? What did they think? Was the director there?” asked her mother, Dina, going to her bedside.
Lindsay blinked, twisted her mouth, and burst into tears. Her mother turned pale, let her mouth fall open, and clasped her hands. The magazine she was reading dropped to the floor.
“What are you crying for? You’ve failed, then?” her mother asked.
“They said it was fine and that they’d be in touch, but I know what that means.”
“I knew this would happen! I had a dream last night,” said her mother. “God! How is it you can’t get real roles? What is the reason? What kind of movie was this again?”
“A teen comedy based on Shakespeare. I knew the lines perfect, but when they asked me to explain them, I froze up. I was reading from the scene where I come out of my bedroom in the middle of the night, and I don’t feel well because of this murder I did, I mean my character of course, and there’s a doctor standing nearby. I thought I would try something different, and go to the doctor for help—not the real doctor, but the doctor in the play—but it turns out my character is sleepwalking and I’m not supposed to know, she’s not supposed to know, that the doctor is even there. I think they thought I didn’t understand. I am miserable. I was working on this all week.”
“It’s not you who should be miserable, but me. I’m miserable. I’ve finally had enough. This is the last straw. I have been taking you to auditions since you were a little girl. I’ve broken my back for you. This is a role that should be a breeze to get. Why can’t you just try harder?”
“I . . . I am trying as hard as I know. I’m up until three or four every night practicing. You’ve seen it yourself.”
“I prayed to God to take me, but He leaves me here to suffer from you. Other people have children like everyone else. I get pleasure and comfort from your sister but none from you. I’d beat you, but where am I to find the strength? Mother of God, where am I to find the strength?”
The mother hid her face in the folds of her blouse and broke into sobs. Lindsay wriggled with anguish and pressed her forehead against the wall. Lindsay’s sister Ali came into the room.
“So that’s how it is. Just what I expected,” Ali said, at once guessing what was wrong, turning pale. “I’ve been depressed all afternoon, while you were out at the audition. There’s trouble coming, I thought, and here it is.”
“No comfort! Where can I find the strength? God damn it.”
“Why are you swearing at her?” cried the sister, turning upon the mother. “It’s not her fault! It’s your fault! You are to blame! Why did you start taking her to auditions? You want to be rich? You’re rich. It’s not like you’re going to turn into an aristocrat. You should have sent her into business, or made her work for a real company. Sure, she had some success, but she’ll drop out of view for long stretches in years to come. And you are wearing yourself out, and wearing her out! She is thin. She coughs constantly. Just look at her!”
“No, Ali, no! I haven’t beaten her enough! She ought to have been beaten, that’s what it is!” The mother shook her fist at her daughters. “You want a flogging, but I haven’t the strength. They told me years ago when she was little, ‘Whip her, whip her!’ I didn’t heed them, and now I am suffering for it. You wait a bit! I’ll flay you! Wait a bit.”
Dina shook her fist, and went weeping into the other room, where her houseguest was sitting. The houseguest, Jesse James, was sitting at a table, reading Shakespeare, of all things. Jesse James was a man of intelligence and education, though he sometimes concealed it. When he was alone, he spoke through his nose, and washed with a soap that made everyone in the house sneeze. He was forever on the lookout for women of refined education.
“My good friend,” began Dina, dissolving into tears. “If you would have the generosity to thrash my girl for me. Do me the favor! She failed another audition, that one! Would you believe it? A failure, again. I can’t punish her, through the weakness of my ill health. Thrash her for me, if you would be so considerate! Have regard for a sick woman!”
Jesse James frowned and heaved a deep sigh. He thought a little, drummed on the table with his fingers, and, sighing once more, went to Lindsay.
“You are being encouraged,” he began, “being given a great opportunity, you revolting young person! Why have you done this?” He talked for a long time, made a speech. He alluded to science, to light, to darkness, to democracy.
When he had finished his speech, he took off his belt and took Lindsay by the hand.
“It’s the only way to deal with you,” he said. Lindsay knelt down submissively and thrust her head between the houseguest’s knees. Her prominent pink ears moved up and down against his new trousers, which had brown stripes on the outer seams.
Lindsay did not utter a single sound. At the family council in the evening, it was decided to send her into business.
Chapter
15
Terror
MICHAEL DOUGLAS ACTED FOR YEARS, BUT AT SOME POINT IN his sixties retired to run a series of coffee shops: not just to own them and to oversee them, but to work in them. This endeavor was fairly successful, and yet it always seemed to me that he was not in his proper place, and that he would do well to go back to Hollywood. When tired, fingers stained, smelling of coffee, he waved to me from behind the counter, and then later on the street seemed almost entranced by his own fatigue, I saw him not as a businessman or a barista, but only as a worried and exhausted man, and it was clear to me that he did not really care for coffee, but that all he wanted was for the day to be over.
I liked to be with him, and I used to stay in the shops as long as I could. I liked the big one on Maple Street, and the small one on Oak, and the one that shared space with a bookstore—and I liked his philosophy, which was clear, though rather spiritless and rhetorical. I suppose I was fond of him on his own account, though I can’t say that for certain. He was an intelligent, kindhearted, genuine man, and not a bore, but I remember that when he confided to me his most treasured secrets and spoke of our relation to each other as friendship, it disturbed me, and I was conscious of an awkwardness. In his affection for me there was something inappropriate, tiresome, and I should have greatly preferred commonplace friendly relations.
The fact is that I was extremely attracted to his wife, Catherine Zeta-Jones. I was not in love with her, but I was attracted by her face, her eyes, her voice, her walk. I missed her when I did not see her for a long time, and my imagination pictured no one at that time so eagerly as that young, beautiful, elegant woman. I had no definite designs in regard to her, and did not dream of anything of the sort, yet for some reason, whenever we were left alone, I remembered that her husband looked upon me as his friend, and I felt awkward. When she came to talk to me about Arabica beans or told me something interesting, I listened with pleasure, and yet at the same time for some reason the reflection that she loved her husband, that he was my friend, and that she herself looked upon me as his friend, intruded. My spirits flagged and I became listless, awkward, and dull. She noticed this change and would usually say: