The night was warm, the moon high in the sky like a benevolent protector. That state of grace you reach when everything comes together in your life; you hope beyond hope that your existence will continue to look like this moment, that nothing will change or move out of whack.
Following Dick’s suggestion, for a laugh, we toasted the Ayatollah’s Komedy on the great terrace that overlooked the valley. That’s what he called the censors at the Parents Television Council (PTC), a new organization in the American TV world. People who had nothing else to do than watch, listen, and scrutinize everything broadcast on prime time, tracking with inquisitorial zeal every swear word, blasphemy, moment of nudity, and scene of sex and violence. No surprise we were on their blacklist; already they’d begun putting pressure on our advertisers, threatening them with a boycott campaign. But our advertisers targeted younger viewers, and were impervious to these sorts of threats. It’s All Comedy!, a cable network dedicated to comedy shows of all stripes, as its name indicated — series, variety shows, shows for teenagers — jealously defended its independence. If the Big Three (ABC, CBS, and NBC) were more receptive to pressure applied by the PTC, It’s All Comedy!’s trademark was boldness, and the advertisers knew it. “Free to laugh!” the network’s advertisements stated, a rather clear reference to the sacrosanct First Amendment.
“To the Ayatollah’s Komedy !” Dick exclaimed, already tipsy. Dick never missed an opportunity to toast something. Josh and his wife, Adriana, were making the rounds, bottles of champagne in both hands, filling our glasses, which we quickly emptied each time. We clinked and raised them in unison. Laughter and jokes. Feverish, contagious gaiety. The women were pretty in their lightweight dresses; the bluish mirror of the pool reflected speckled, dancing light; Ann, as always, was the most beautiful of all. A memorable night.
Josh Ovitz had made a daring bet when he bought In Gad We Trust. It was in 1992, two weeks after Bill Clinton’s election. I was fascinated and soon charmed by this young Harvard man, not very tall, a healthy glow to his skin, black hair and the expressive eyes of a curious child. You might not have suspected that the thirty-one-year-old was a shark of a businessman and a multimillionaire. He looked like a student — washed out jeans and Harvard t-shirt. He had made his fortune through investments in the ad industry before moving to It’s all Comedy!, a network he bought with his father and developed into what it was today. He invited us to his place, Dick and me (Dick put up, as producer, half of the show’s budget), to this incredible house on Wild Oak Drive. That such a young man could own a magnificent house like this impressed me. He ushered us into the living room with the confidence of a much older man who’d seen it all. Tall windows like in skyscrapers, a room decorated like a magazine — Italian couches with pure lines, varnished furniture, and silk rugs. On the living room table, newspapers and magazines all open to pictures of Bill Clinton. Josh was close to the Democrats, who had recently won back the White House, crushing the Republicans who had been in power for twelve years with their “moral and economic obscurantism,” he told us, emphasizing every word. He had the aplomb of an older man who gives his opinions and doesn’t expect to be contradicted. He poured us each a scotch as he enthused about the November 3 victory as if it had been the best news of his life. He was overjoyed, floating on a cloud, so much so that I later thought that he might not have taken the risk with In Gad if the project had been offered to him at another time.
Josh mentioned that with the Republicans’ debacle the religious right had seen the doors of power close on them in Washington, “neu-tra-li-zed!” He spoke as if tasting fine wine, though he mimed slitting his throat. No doubt, according to him, fundamentalist Christians were destined to be marginalized. “They’re the ones who led to the Republicans losing. The electorate understood the danger they represent.”
Then we spoke of In Gad — he mentioned he was charmed from the very first pages — God, America, money, “the three pillars of American wisdom,” he said ironically. And The Last Temptation of Christ, “What Lew went through, it was just awful.” Lew Wasserman, the big boss at Universal who’d been in the eye of the storm in 1988. A good friend of his father’s. “They banged him up good. Dragged him through the mud in every paper. Those fundamentalists are trying to shut us up with their vicious anti-Semitic attacks. Never again,” he’d said, shaking his head, “Never again.” A promise he made, and I was happy for it, except you never know what’s around the corner. Josh learned that lesson the hard way with In Gad. These Hollywood types — always going after Christians but never Jews. Why is that? Attacks directed at his name and that of his ad director, Michael Hausman. His right-hand man, Ab Chertoff, his father, Sam Ovitz. It had been quite a blow for Josh. He would lose that confidence that had so impressed Dick and me on that afternoon in 1992.
He wasn’t as tense now that the success of In Gad seemed assured. He was enjoying himself that evening, at this celebration in his lush garden smelling of orange blossoms. Matt was horsing around. He fashioned a crown of thorns — no idea where he found that — and placed it on his Knicks baseball cap, which was never very far from him. A funny guy, Matt. Tall, talented, and sensitive, with a strong New York accent. He might have been the most exasperated among all of us with the constant complaints and criticism. The explanation was his childhood as an Irish Catholic which, from the little I knew, had been far more difficult than mine. The crown of thorns he had on his head, it was to fuck with them, he told me, so each time he went through the small group of people camping out in front of La Brea studio, he could see the shocked faces of the pro-life demonstrators, their moral repugnance clearly showing. I ignored them — they weren’t aggressive yet, though the slogans on their signs were — SHAME ON YOU! ABORTION IS MURDER! — and passed them without looking at them. It was important not to make them feel important. Matt and Dick couldn’t help themselves and would often engage with them. Dick especially, with his taunting questions, “Don’t you work? Who’s paying you to be here? Unproductive people like you, we should get rid of all of you!”
“You don’t seem to be affected by it,” Matt told me once.
“Why would I?” I answered. “That’s their opinion, I’ve got mine. That’s all.”
He looked at me, confused, his Knicks cap raised on his forehead. “How do you do it?”
I needed only to think of Dana and her admirable courage to be immune to the noise and scandal surrounding In Gad. The Next War had sparked much worse. With a bit of perspective, I understood how hard it must have been for Dana, a feminist in a hostile world, surrounded by men jealous of their prerogatives. She’d been hated, ridiculed. Alone and fragile, yet she had resisted. Such hateful copy in newspapers, messages in the mail, death threats, sarcasm on TV.… She had faced so much! That’s what I thought of when I saw the demonstrators on the sidewalk, their closed faces, their indignation painted on signs; it was nothing at all compared to what Dana’s book had caused — arrests, demonstrations, the Freudian Vandals. That’s what I thought of when Chastity’s abortions led to attacks against us in the media — always a passionate topic, and no different on that night at Josh’s place when Dick, his speech slurred from drink, said, “Chastity’s the one who brings us the most money. People are glad to see we’ve got balls.” He spoke coarsely, gesturing with his hand to make sure we knew where his balls were, without thinking of Avril only a few feet away. In the garden, under the soft light of small lanterns, I saw Avril blush. She was a discreet young woman of nineteen, with beautiful blond hair. She was young to be facing such pressure. Ann and I wanted to protect her; we helped her choose which interviews to do — the media were interested in her character most of all — and sometimes we accompanied her. I had to be strong to make her comfortable. When we wrote the series, Ann and I knew it would cause a scandal, and we were ready to face the music — like Dana had done with her formidable ideas, audacious for her time.
“What about your son, Roman? What does
he think about it all?”
My son? The words were still too new not to cause a shiver of surprise. Ab Chertoff was asking the question. Ab Chertoff, an affable man the size of an offensive lineman.
“Len?” I said. “He likes In Gad. He says his father is a genius.”
I laughed, and so did he.
“We’re happy for you. A son well established in life. Good for you.”
Ab had two sons, one of whom had caused all sorts of trouble as a teenager. I thanked him, and he placed a heavy, warm hand on my shoulder. There was no jealousy in his eyes, only solicitude.
I was staring at the pool, thinking of Len. Our long discussions over the phone about In Gad and American politics. My son was on the right of the political spectrum and spoke openly about his admiration for Ronald Reagan. I wasn’t surprised, but disconcerted, yes. Over the course of our conversations, I discovered our opinions were starkly different, and that forced me to be more open. It was the same thing when it came to abortion, a sensitive subject for him, for obvious reasons. Next to me, Dick laughed. He told Ab, as if he could hear my thoughts, “Sure, his son was raised right. But he lights candles for that failed actor turned president anyway.” Dick was drunk; I hated seeing him like this. “Hey, Roman! Tell us how you managed to make a right-wing son? How did you do it?” To make sure we understood what he was alluding to, he’d gestured graphically, aping with unbounded energy a sexual act.
“Dick, shut up.”
I didn’t like it when people mocked Len.
5
No way I’d be skimping on the welcome for Len’s first visit to Los Angeles!
Flowers in the guest room, a refrigerator filled with goodies — my son was a giant! Eggs, bacon, ham, potatoes, plenty to make delicious hamburgers on the grill at lunch, and two good bottles of cognac — Courvoisier XO — only the best for our long discussions after supper. Dizzy with it all, Ann told me to relax. “You’re going to embarrass him, the poor man!” But I wasn’t listening, determined that everything be perfect, a success, spending plenty of time on the phone reserving tickets for all sorts of things (theatre, concerts, the Dodgers’ season opener) and a table for two, father and son, for a dinner at Spago’s. It was the “place to be” in town, just filled to the brim with celebrities. The best tables going according to your value. Dick brought me there to celebrate when we sold In Gad We Trust. Full of pride, he gave the good news to the legendary owner of the restaurant, Wolfgang Puck. Soon after, I became a regular at the most desirable tables, right next to the window. “Roman Carr,” Dick told him, “remember that name.”
I would definitely impress my son.
My God, that first time! Len was as excited as a child. He simply couldn’t hold still in the Pathfinder, amazed each time he recognized a landmark from hundreds and hundreds of movies. L.A. isn’t Paris or London or New York, with their grandiose, distinctive monuments. No, in L.A. things are different. It’s a more subtle experience; constant impressions of déjà-vu, as if you had lived in the city in another life. The great boulevards lined with palm trees, the Hollywood Hills, floating over the smog, the freeways (is there anything uglier in a city?) cutting through the megalopolis. Len knew their names by heart — Hollywood Freeway, Ventura Freeway, Santa Ana Freeway —from having read them in Michael Connelly novels.
My God, that first time! We were both so nervous at the idea of spending three days together — and what if we disappointed each other? From the airport to the house, Len couldn’t stop talking, as if he feared silence between us, naming every movie he ever loved that had been shot in Los Angeles — Lethal Weapon, Heat, Dragnet, Terminator …. I was a bit disconcerted, My son? That’s the type of movies he likes? I would have preferred if his list were more like mine: The Graduate, Barton Fink, Chinatown, Pulp Fiction. But why not? He seemed so happy! There was something touching in his child-like enthusiasm, while I, his father, was already trying to find excuses for him, He’s my son, he can like whatever he wants. And have his own opinions.
Len loved the house on Appian Way, way up in the Hollywood Hills. Large, comfortable, simple. A two-storey stucco home, its back against the hill, meaning we didn’t have a garden, but we did have a large terrace over the garage that offered a fantastic view of the valley, which, far out to our right, cut a path towards the skyscrapers of Los Angeles as slender as wild reeds. They were perhaps the strangest element of this town of excesses, especially for a New Yorker. (Yes, strangely enough, after all these years in California, I still thought of myself as a New Yorker.) Our reward was to our left — round hills the shape of a young woman’s breasts, Hollywood’s name tattooed on them.
As if by magic, Len’s arrival in our life put an end to Ann’s obsessions with maternity. I don’t think she was conscious of it at first, nor do I think she would have agreed with my interpretation of the changes in her behaviour. But his presence — and through him the presence of his children — seemed to satiate her, at least temporarily. It was her attitude towards herself that changed first — she stopped comparing herself to women of her own age who had children. Then, her attitude towards our relationship changed — we began making love in a way that was so much more carefree. I hadn’t seen her so calm in a long time, without a nagging thought in the back of her head cutting her off from her own pleasure, spoiling our moments of intimacy. We went to Calgary a few times to visit our grandchildren. Ann was overcome with a deep and sudden affection for Cody and Julia, calling them from L.A. often. She would send them books, VHS tapes, even toys sometimes. “Grandma Ann! Come play with us!” And she laughed. The children were simply marvelous, always happy to speak to us, bringing tears to our eyes when they said, “I love you, Ann, I love you Romain.” Filled with boundless gratitude when we sent them gifts, “Oh, it’s so beautiful!” or wisely puzzled, “How come a gift? It isn’t my birthday.” They were at odds with the children of friends and neighbours in L.A. — like one of Ann’s nephews, a boy named Judd who was a little older than Cody. His mother, Ann’s sister, had spoiled him silly, then abdicated, terrorized by this child, capable, when angry, of holding his breath until his eyes rolled back in his head.
When Len visited us in L.A., he always came alone, never with the kids or Lynn. It was his decision, he said, to catch up on lost time, as he’d done with Gail. He would come in on a Friday evening and leave early on Monday morning, going straight to work in Calgary from the airport.
“Lynn doesn’t object to it?” I asked him, once.
He smiled. “Oh, she says that it’s my new pretext to be away from home. She also says that when I’m done with you, I’ll find brothers or sisters — new alibis.”
“Lynn doesn’t seem very happy for you.”
He shrugged. “She sees it as a threat, I think. I’ve come to understand that housewives, when they lose control, they feel their backs against the wall.”
“And do you see it like that? Like a way of escaping?”
He lowered his eyes. “I don’t know, Romain.”
Another time, when we were having supper with Ann near Rodeo Drive, he declared, taking in the place with his arms wide, “You know, when I see all of this, I feel like my life is pretty dull. This city is both as unreal as a fairy tale and at the same time, because of movies and television, as familiar as an old shoebox full of family pictures. Los Angeles disorients me. I never know what state I’ll be in when I get back to Calgary.”
“Why don’t you bring Lynn with you?” Ann asked. “Come with the kids, spend a week or two. There’s more than enough room at home. I’d like to see Cody and Julia. I miss them both so much. You could borrow one of our cars and maybe drive up the coast, to Santa Barbara, or farther. Why not? You’ll see, it’s spectacular over there.”
“And for the kids, there’s Disneyland and Universal Studios,” I added. “And if you’re worrying about money, Len, your father’s here for you.”
He blushed with embar
rassment, making me immediately regret my tactlessness. Ann kicked me under the table.
“He’s a man!” she shouted at me once we were back home. “With a good job. Why did you have to humiliate him? You could have waited until you were alone, and offer it like a gift, without mentioning his finances. Now that you’ve got so much money, you’re forgetting what it’s like to live in the real world.”
Being a father was complicated.
A few months later, Len came with Lynn, but without the kids. There was no way Cody and Julia could take time off school. Ann was disappointed. Len had paid for their plane tickets, and I hadn’t insisted. But it bothered me so much! To make amends, I reserved all the movie tickets, the shows, I brought them out to fine restaurants almost every night and when Len tried to pay, I would tell him firmly that it was my treat, that it wasn’t negotiable, that it was a father’s right. He smiled, embarrassed.
As much as I loved Len and the kids, I found Lynn depressing. Oh, sure, she was a kind young woman, without malice, an excellent mother to Cody and Julia, but as a wife to a husband? Plump and hung-up about it, she didn’t speak much, avoided our presence when she could, found refuge on the terrace or in their room. In the mornings, she waited for Len before joining us for breakfast. She simply never interacted with us on her own. Between them, you could feel a constant low-level tension. Impatient gestures, an annoyed clacking of the tongue, sighs of exasperation. She wasn’t happy about the trip, it was clear, and she kept complaining that she missed the children. Before we left for the airport, Len took me aside.
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