Rough Cut

by Brian Pinkerton

  “How about if they help you with the rent.”

  “Listen, we’re starved. We just want to eat lunch and get back to work on the film.”

  Grubbis finally relented. He stepped out of the way and said, “You might want to rethink your priorities.”

  “Nothing’s more important than making movies,” said Stegman, taking the door handle.

  “Yeah. Well I don’t care if you’re Steven friggin’ Spielberg. You pay up or move out. I have evicted actors, actresses, directors, screenwriters...I don’t care. You Hollywood wannabes are a dime a dozen.”

  Stegman entered the house.

  Grubbis got a glance inside. It was a pit, an absolute hellhole of trash: movie equipment, tripods and cables, pizza boxes, soda bottles, and precarious stacks of boxes and plastic bucket containers.

  Dear God, I can’t stomach this...

  “Did you get my Thai Taco?” asked the deep-voiced roommate.

  “So who is that creepy old dude?” said the other.

  The door shut.

  Grubbis returned to his car. He was not optimistic about getting his money on Monday —not even a portion of it. But for now, the kid was getting another chance. Somewhere, Audrey Stegman was smiling at him, but next time...Well, that would be another story.

  As Grubbis drove from the property, he slumped in his seat, soured by the sinking feeling of inevitability. He was going to evict this kid one day.

  Movie boy would have to face up to reality.

  6

  Harry snapped on the light and faced three walls of movies. The complete works of PJ Productions surrounded him, stored neatly on long shelves in deep quantities. The archive room collected his movies in every conceivable medium: digital and analog videotape formatted for consumer and broadcast use, PAL and NTSC DVDs, as well as film cans of the earliest 16mm pictures, and even some reels of 35mm prints.

  All of the hard work — from drafting script treatments to final sound mixing —ultimately led here, to the end product. Every time he stepped inside this room, he felt a lift of pride. These were his babies.

  Harry Tuttle’s Soul Snatchers. Harry Tuttle’s Hillbilly Cannibals. Harry Tuttle’s Ghost House and its three sequels. And so many others. His legacy.

  His oeuvre.

  Now the struggle began.

  Rachel, the beautiful and warm young actress he had met at Richard Metherell’s party, had asked to see a few of his films. She was unfamiliar with Scary Harry. Harry was eager to respond.

  But which movies? It was a tough decision...best made through a process of elimination.

  He ruled out the more violent pictures. The gore might turn her off.

  Next, he decided against choosing any of the more recent, super-low-budget ones. The quality might disappoint her.

  Finally, he rejected sending any of the old pictures. She would consider him a has-been.

  That eliminated almost everything.

  Harry started over. He decided to mix up the styles, a Tuttle sampler.

  First, an all-out monster movie...Valley of the Zombies. Some critics liked that one. A reviewer in a Rockford, Illinois newspaper had said, “A competent chiller with decent effects.”

  Second, one of his more suspenseful, Hitchcockian efforts, Frightened Whispers. It had good acting, fancy camerawork, sharp plot twists, and an interesting mystery at its core. Only a few people got skewered in it. Many of the scares were suggested or subliminal, rather than in-your-face. It was one of his artier works.

  Third, Slash. A traditional serial killer-on-the-loose thriller featuring a hard-as-nails female FBI agent. A trustworthy premise. Lurid, sure, but Silence of the Lambs won a bunch of Oscars, so how trashy could it be? Instead of Anthony Hopkins and Jody Foster, he had a couple of no-names in the lead roles, including the girlfriend of one of his investors, but she was actually damn good; and you could barely notice her reading off the teleprompter.

  Three movies, each a little different.

  He brought the DVDs into his office and placed them inside a box with bubble wrap. He added the screenplay for The Vampire of Sunset Strip. He handwrote a label from the address she had given him at the party. Then he penned a short note on official PJ Productions stationery, “It was great meeting you...”

  His game plan was to pursue Rachel from two angles: for his next movie and for a date. After giving her a few days to review the script and DVDs, he would follow up with a phone call, asking her out to dinner.

  Harry’s imagination projected the storyline in his head: a perfect dinner would ignite a long-lasting and loving partnership. She would become his leading lady in movies and real life.

  He pictured Rachel giving a passionate performance on the set of one of his films, delivering lines he had written with breathtaking precision and soul. He wouldn’t even need to direct her; she would know him so well she would read his mind and deliver the performance as he felt it. After a long day of filming, they would go back to his house and unwind in the hot tub. He would rub those marvelous shoulders, lift the tangles of golden hair and gently kiss the back of her neck —

  “Harry!” Paul Jacobs entered the room, clapping his hands together.

  Harry nearly dropped the box of DVDs.

  “I am ready to roll,” said Paul. “This is it. You’re on your own for the next four weeks. I’ll have my BlackBerry and my cell phone. You run the show, big guy.”

  Paul slapped a piece of paper in front of Harry. “Itinerary.”

  It listed Paul’s travels for the coming weeks. First, Paul was headed to London for an independent film festival. He was sitting on a producer’s panel, networking with distributors, and holding digital screenings for his latest movies, including The Beastly.

  Next, he was headed to Milan for the annual international film and TV markets conference, essentially a massive trade-show for the entertainment industry. Distributors and buyers from around the globe would gather to strike deals for theatrical, broadcast and home video rights. Filmmakers would showcase their product. Paul would be joined by Sam Kaplan, his aggressive and well-connected sales agent. They would operate an exhibit stall, meet with foreign rights people, and personally secure licensing on a territory-by-territory basis —far more profitable than leaving it up to a corporate distributor’s network and getting ripped off blind.

  After the Milan conference, Paul was staying in Italy to be joined by his latest girlfriend, Krystal, for an extended vacation. Paul and Krystal planned to roam the country: Rome, Venice, Florence.

  “Krystal says I work too hard and don’t spend enough time with her, and she’s right. So, after the Milan conference, I’m not going to think about PJ Productions for two whole weeks.”

  “Hah,” responded Harry. “Do you really think you can do it?”

  “Of course,” said Paul, “because I am leaving the company in your good hands.”

  “I promise not to burn it to the ground.”

  “You’ll be better off without me. You have everything you need for the vampire picture. The money’s in the account. And I want you to know that I upped your budget 25 percent.”

  Harry looked at Paul, startled. This was unusual. Paul had been systematically tightening the budget for three years. It had been a major bone of contention between them.

  “You mean it?”

  “The money’s all there. Go crazy. Treat yourself to some special effects, some stunts, a car chase, I don’t know, maybe get some name talent. Your call. You’ve never let me down, so this is my thank you. Here’s the catch: I want you to deliver a home run.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Good enough.” Paul checked his watch. “The limo is going to be here in five minutes. Have I forgotten anything? I shipped eight boxes ahead of me. Press kits, posters, screeners, continuity scripts for foreign language dubbing...”

  “Whatever you forget, I can send to you.”

  “I wish you were coming along, partner. We are going to wheel and deal like nobody’s b
usiness. Sam is pumped. Say, did I ever tell you how big you are in Sweden?”

  “Sweden?” Harry always took Paul’s grandiose claims with a grain of salt. While he could never really determine the extent of his name recognition overseas, he knew one thing for sure: in Los Angeles, where it mattered, he was small potatoes. That’s why his wife had left him for a well-known, brand-name director of action epics.

  Harry’s career had left her unfulfilled.

  Paul’s eyes caught the label on Harry’s box of DVDs. “Rachel Stoller?”

  Harry said, “She’s an actress I met at Richard Metherell’s party. I want her in my next movie.”

  “Is she cute?”

  “Very.”

  “Ask her if she’ll do a topless scene.”

  “Knock it off.”

  “You know it would help shift units.” Paul walked over to the window and surveyed the traffic on Wilshire Boulevard. “The limo better not be late. It’s going to take forever to get through international.”

  Harry finished sealing the box that held the script and DVDs. He stared at Rachel’s name on the label.

  He wondered which movie she would watch first. Which one she would like best. He imagined her in his next horror movie. He wondered if she had a good scream...

  7

  Harry buried himself in preproduction details for The Vampire of Sunset Strip. He drafted a 21-day shooting schedule, worked on the script breakdowns, secured the proper location agreements and filming permits, arranged equipment rental, and assembled a cast and crew from his file cabinet of resumes and headshots. Many of his first choices were available, and if not, he had a deep stock of trusted alternatives. His favorite affordable director of photography was available, and his second-favorite sound guy. It was a mix and match of talent he had worked with before. A smooth operation oiled by familiarity.

  Ultimately, only one position remained unfilled: the role of Moon, the sexy and vibrant girlfriend of Ronos the vampire hunter. Harry had reserved that role for Rachel. By now, she would have received the script, along with the DVDs of choice prior works. In a few days, he would follow up with an offer. He couldn’t wait to put the lens on her.

  With Paul traveling, Harry worked alone, putting in long hours at the PJ Productions offices. Paul called nearly every day to report his progress in the international marketplace. To begin one call he declared, “You’re a god in Malaysia!”

  Harry shrugged off the hyperbole. Perhaps they had dumped a lot of product there, but he had yet to run across Harry Tuttle fan clubs anywhere on the globe.

  The first day of principal photography for The Vampire of Sunset Strip was scheduled for the following Thursday. Harry had rented a cheap soundstage in the worst part of East L.A., and started storyboards for the death scene of a medical lab technician. In the scene, the handsome young technician discovers evidence of a vampirism virus transmitted by sexual contact, which is rapidly spreading throughout the Hollywood youth culture. Before the technician can go public with his discovery, two vampires confront and kill him in his lab, slashing his throat with a broken test tube and dining on his blood.

  Harry liked the scene and hoped to create an AIDS allegory with the vampirism virus: intimacy can lead to becoming a member of the walking dead. He prepared the call sheet and shot list, noting props, and putting together a list of ASAP tasks for his PAs. He was feeling good and organized about things when the phone rang.

  Not the outside ring, but the intercom buzz. It was Kelly. PJ Productions shared a receptionist on the fourth floor with an entertainment attorney and a literary agent. Kelly sat behind a barren desk near the elevators and spent much of her time reading paranormal romance novels.

  “A Mr. Stegman to see you,” said Kelly.

  “I don’t know a Mr. Stegman,” said Harry.

  Harry heard a male voice in the background, “Tell him it’s important.”

  “He says it’s important,” said Kelly.

  “Fine. Let him through.”

  Harry grunted and stood up from his desk, immediately greeted by aches, and a head rush from sitting all day. He advanced down a skinny corridor that connected his office, Paul’s office, the screening room, a conference room, two storage areas, and a small kitchenette. He followed the path to a sitting area just inside the company entrance. The entrance itself created the impression of grandeur: two heavy glass doors, adorned with the company logo in silver, with brass fittings. Harry often wondered if the doors cost more than some of his movies.

  A tall, pasty young man stood behind the glass. To Harry, he appeared indistinguishable from a lot of other young Hollywood males working hard to look hip: ponytail, goatee, black turtleneck. Upon closer inspection, Harry could see evidence that this youngster was weathered beyond his years. The hair looked greasy and dark bags hung under his eyes. He looked undernourished.

  His hands clutched a manila envelope.

  Harry tugged open the heavy door and the young man seemed to gasp.

  “Harry Tuttle,” he said.

  “Afraid so,” said Harry.

  “It’s an honor to meet you. I hope I’m not disturbing anything.”

  “Not really.”

  The young man stuck out his hand and exclaimed, “I’m Marcus Stegman.”

  Harry shook it. “Hello, Marcus.”

  After a silent moment, the young man said, “You don’t recognize the name?”

  Harry thought for a minute. Maybe they had worked together on a project? But the name and face did not register. “No. I’m sorry...”

  “I’ve written you several times. I’m a filmmaker. I wrote to you about my movie, Deadly Desires.”

  Harry still couldn’t make a connection. “We get a lot of unsolicited pitches, I really can’t remember...” In reality, most of the unsolicited pitches got pitched.

  Marcus Stegman looked anxious, and his entire body seemed to fidget. “Are you free for just a few minutes? I promise I won’t take long.”

  Harry suppressed a big sigh. “Sure. I guess. A few minutes.” He really didn’t like this type of thing: someone he didn’t know showing up unannounced to sell himself. As entry into the industry got more competitive, people were getting more aggressive. Once, a screenwriter wannabe waited for him in his driveway and wouldn’t take no for an answer until Harry threatened to call the police.

  Harry led Stegman into the PJ Productions conference room, flipping on the lights. “I’ve only got a few minutes,” he warned. “I’m in preproduction.”

  Stegman marveled over the posters on the walls. “Wow. Schizo Sisters... Swamp Monster... Hillbilly Cannibals.”

  Has he really seen them, or is he bullshitting me? Harry wondered.

  “I loved the pitchfork-in-the-eye scene in Hillbilly Cannibals,” said Stegman, and Harry smiled. At least this guy had done his homework.

  “Thank you, Marcus. Have a seat.”

  They sat.

  Stegman began the conversation with a declaration, “Mr. Tuttle, I am the world’s biggest horror movie buff. I know that sounds exaggerated, but it’s true. I’ve been a fan of your work since the beginning. I really admire what you do.”

  “Thank you,” said Harry. “I appreciate that.” He found his spirits lifted and realized that it had been a long time since someone had spoken highly of his work— not counting Paul, who was a professional bull-shitter.

  “You and me, I like to think we’re kind of similar,” said Stegman. “You see, I’m also a filmmaker. My focus is horror films. I’m just getting started, but I’m very good. Right now, I’m just trying to break into the business. I don’t know if you’re looking for writers or directors...”

  Stop right there. Harry didn’t want the young man to get his hopes up. “Frankly, we’re a very small company,” he said. “I do all the writing and directing.”

  Stegman persisted. “I think I could be a real asset to your company. I could help build your success. Let me give you some context. I have studied the horror genre all
my life, from top to bottom, across the history of cinema. The silents, the Universal classics of the thirties, the Hammer pictures, Roger Corman, George Romero, Wes Craven, and on and on. You should see my collection of memorabilia. I have old posters and soundtracks. I used to have a dog named Kolchak, after the TV series. I just love horror. I know horror. And now I have a horror movie of my own.” He placed the manila envelope on the table. “Please, I know your time is valuable, but I’d like you to look at it.”

  Harry chose his words carefully. “I’d be willing to look at your script, but I’m really busy with my next picture, so it might not be for...”

  “No, no. It’s not a script, it’s a movie,” said Stegman.

  Harry blinked. “You already filmed it?”

  Stegman took the envelope and shook out a DVD case. He passed it across the table to Harry. “I shot it on digital video, did all the editing on an iMac, burned it to disc. The movie is done. I need your help and advice on how to sell this and get it out.”

  “Congratulations,” said Harry. He opened the plastic case, finding a shiny DVD-R with Deadly Desires handwritten on the surface. “This is no small feat. I know how hard it is.”

  “My God, you don’t know the half of it,” said Stegman. “I have worked twenty-hour days, seven days a week, for months. I have maxed out a half dozen credit cards and taken out loans. I have dodged the unions, called out favors, begged, borrowed and stolen to make this movie. But you know what: all that stress and penny pinching, I think it actually helped. I don’t like horror films that are really slick and expensive, because you can see all the filmmaking on the screen. They use famous stars, elaborate special effects and steadicams —you just know it’s all a production, so you never get scared. You can see the machinery. That’s why I like your stuff —it’s direct, it’s in-your-face. So is mine. Mr. Tuttle, I have a horror movie that delivers real scares.”

  Harry Tuttle smiled and stood up.

  “Well then, I look forward to checking it out. Again, it may not be soon. I’m up to my eyeballs in my next picture, but I promise I’ll take a look. Your contact information is on here?”