by Davis Bunn
Having raised two sons and one former husband, Liz knew enough not to point out that they were talking about a twenty-three-year-old truck. “I’m so sorry, Stanley.”
“Either that or the angels who’ve been holding the thing together decided their job was done.”
They stopped at the Cowpoke Grill, a hole-in-the-wall off the highway, and dined upon the world’s undisputed king of hamburgers. They then drove to the Houston prayer meeting. They did not talk about each other or what they might or might not be entering into. There wasn’t space. The only thing they could focus on was their friends.
Their worries were shared by all in the prayer meeting. They talked about it in the futile irritation of people paid to solve problems. But the entertainment industry was a closed system, where few of them had any usable connections.
One man said, “I’ve got a pal up in Chicago who’s invested in a chain of them whatchacallems.”
“Multiplexes.”
“ ’Course, I can’t ask him to put something on the screen that’s gonna remind folks of what you sweep off a stable floor.”
Liz said, “I’ve seen about ninety seconds of whatever they call the filming.”
“Dailies,” Stanley filled in. “They were great.”
“They gave me chills,” Liz agreed.
Their leader that evening was the president of a regional insurance company. “So first we need to know if we have a product to work with. When do they expect to finish up?”
“They’ve wrapped the shoot, according to Brent. They’re midway through postproduction. Tim Crawford’s doing the score.”
“I can’t imagine Tim Crawford putting his stamp on something that isn’t top drawer.”
“I’m telling you,” Liz said. “I think they’re producing a real winner here.”
Stanley added, “They were hoping to release around the first week in September.”
The insurance company president was busy making notes. “Let’s assume for the moment Bobby’s group has come up with a solid product. So there are two problems he needs help with. The first is, can we help him find theaters that would be willing to show his film.”
“What about this distributor business?” someone asked.
The company chief waved that aside. “Bobby Dupree has either bought or set up two dozen corporations. He can put the thing together, if he’s got a reason to. No, we need to focus on our two problems.”
“So what’s the second?”
Liz supplied, “Getting the word out.”
“That’s it in a nutshell,” their leader confirmed. “It doesn’t matter how many theaters we can feed his way. If people don’t know the film is coming out—”
Stanley leapt to his feet, sending his chair crashing against the wall. “I am a complete and total ninny!”
The insurance company president had led a relief convoy of thirty-two semis into New Orleans the week after Katrina. He was not easily shocked. “You have something for us, brother?”
“I am such a fool.” Stanley searched the boardroom. “Anybody got a phone?”
“You mean other than the one hanging from your belt?” Liz asked.
“Oh. Yeah. Sure.” In his haste to make the door, Stanley stumbled over a pair of feet and almost went down. “Y’all gotta excuse … I need to find—” The door slammed shut.
Somebody said, “Looks like the Spirit’s launched that guy out of bounds.”
“Something sure put a spark under his saddle,” another agreed.
39
Trevor sat next to a very frightened Brent. He knew the man’s fear was unfounded. But this moment was not about logic. It was about getting his friend ready to go up there and save the day.
Of course, having all their hopes and dreams riding on what Brent said, not to mention the future of Bobby Dupree’s company, was enough to give anybody a severe case of the willies.
Brent asked, “Why are you smiling?”
“No reason, mate.”
“There’s nothing funny about this.”
“Quite right.”
“This is serious business.”
“Most assuredly.”
“So wipe that silly grin off your kisser.”
“No one says kisser anymore. The word’s grown all dank and moldy.”
Brent shut his eyes and leaned his head against the wall behind his chair. Furrows of strain ran from his eyes to his hairline. “I can’t believe I let Bobby convince me to do this.”
They sat in the corner of the stage. Beyond the curtain rose a gentle bedlam. The Austin Convention Center was playing host to the largest gathering of evangelical pastors in the world. It had originated as an Orlando convocation, the brainchild of a major youth organization’s founder, who thought there should be a weekend retreat restricted to pastors and church leaders. Nondenominational. No political agenda. In the nineteen years since they had started, the gathering had grown from several hundred to almost twenty thousand attendees. Each year, the steering committee gathered and prayed and fasted for three days. At the end of this period, they announced the theme for that year’s convocation. Pastors were invited to come and deliver talks. Each senior pastor who spoke was balanced with an up-and-comer. This year’s theme was “Beyond the Comfort Zone.”
Stanley Alcott’s predecessor had volunteered his church as this year’s host organization. The downtown convention center was the only place in town large enough to hold the gathering. The group had finished their Saturday dinner and were filing back into the arena for the final lecture. Only tonight there was no lecture to be heard.
Trevor leaned close enough to his friend not to need to raise his voice. “Here’s a scoop, mate. You’ve already got the inside track on this gig.”
Brent cracked one eyelid. “I almost understand what you just said.”
“Job done. Tools up. Hands washed. Tea’s milked. Biscuits dunked. End of another good day. All you need to do is walk out there and sort out the intro, and right sharpish. Then go find your seat and let the film do the rest.”
“It’s that part about walking out there that’s got me stumped.”
“I admit it’s a fair old trek from here to there. But there’s something you have to remember, lad. You’re not alone in this. Not by a far cry.”
Brent had both eyes open now. “All I’ve ever wanted is this. All I’ve ever been good at. The only place I’ve ever felt truly comfortable. Just another wounded bird surrounded by others exactly like me. All of us sharing that strange and incredible chance to grow wings of celluloid. And just for a moment, only the length of that one take, we can rise up together and fly.”
Trevor felt the wind catch in his throat. He swallowed hard and managed, “Do you know what makes a great director? It’s not a fellow who finds the proper angle and shoots the right scene. I grant you, such fellows are a rare enough breed. But a great director, now, he has that and something more. Do you have any idea what I’m referring to?”
“None at all.”
“Well, then, pay attention, because I’m about to utter a mountaintop pronouncement. A great director, dear boy, is someone who galvanizes. Who encourages even when dealing out the harshest criticism. Who can take an unlikely assortment of odds and ends and draw from them a work of beauty.” Trevor patted Brent’s knee. “Working with you has brought me as close to greatness as I have ever come.”
Tim Crawford spoke from behind them. “I’d give that a big amen.”
“So what I suggest, mate, is we bow our heads and pray for you to recognize just who you have become. And then I want you to stand up and walk the red carpet down to the altar of publicity. And stake our Lord’s banner front and center.”
Having Tim Crawford walk out unannounced created quite a ruckus. The crowd was up and cheering in a wave as his name passed from person to person. He stood bare-headed and alone, his favorite Gibson strung around his neck. There was no podium. His face was up on the screens looming on either side of the stage. He stru
mmed a note and the sound echoed from massive speakers rising to either side of the giant empty screen that now acted as backdrop. He waited until the audience quieted somewhat, then launched straight into “I’ll Fly Away.” Lyrics replaced his face on the screens, and the whole world sang along.
He led them through a couple more resounding favorites, then said, “Most of y’all have heard about Shoestring Productions and their project Long Hunter. Those of you who know the legend of Daniel Boone know the title was Boone’s nickname. He was called that not because of the length of his musket, as many now like to claim. It was because he led his hunting parties and his families further than any frontiersman had ever been. He did so because he felt his God called him to lead the way into a wilderness where no settler had ever ventured. Out into the forbidden territory. Out where there were neither maps nor guides. Out into peril and death from a thousand different dangers.”
Tim Crawford slid his guitar behind his back and went on, “I started on this project because I could hear my granny, the woman who first opened the Bible for me, telling me this was something that needed doing. But I’ve found myself in something a lot bigger than just making a film. I’m in the company of a modern day Long Hunter.”
Tim Crawford turned and said, “Brent, why don’t you come on out here and let the folks have a look at you.”
Brent’s legs managed to carry him out and across the endless stage. His battery pack bumped in his jacket pocket. A dozen of his own shadows tracked his movements on the white screen behind him. His hands were as moist as old sponges. He was certain the mike pinned to his lapel picked up the pounding of his heart.
Tim wrapped one burly arm around Brent’s shoulders and said, “Folks, I asked to be here today just so I could stand on the stage with this man. Y’all know him, or know of him. Y’all know he was broken. Some might have heard he was also saved. What I have discovered is that God has taken these broken shards and made a vessel into which He could pour his greatness. Ladies and gentlemen, I count it an honor to introduce the director and star of Long Hunter, Brent Stark.”
The arena was four levels high, and arched on the sides like arms raised at the elbows. From where he stood, every seat seemed full. Brent had no idea what exactly he was going to say until that moment. “A recent Gallup poll stated that over twothirds of Americans claim they are practicing Christians. Forty percent of those polled said they were evangelicals. That makes somewhere around a hundred forty million people. But where are they? They’re certainly not in our churches. No. They are in our movie theaters. They are in front of their televisions. They are lining up to buy the latest game console. You don’t have to look any further than your living room to know that this is an entertainment-driven culture. This is not supposition. This is truth.
“But we live in an era of moronic films and self-destructive story lines. What we tried to do here was offer an alternative. Create a story that was derived from the best of our past, in hopes of stimulating a different take on our future.
“Many of you from Texas will recall what the studio system recently did to the Alamo. They made the story cynical, selfserving, politically correct, and void of heroes. You watch. Galaxy Studios will soon release their own Daniel Boone film, entitled Iron Feather. I am certain their take on Daniel Boone will only be more of the same. The studio does not dispute this. In fact, they brag about it.
“It’s time we reclaim our right to take pride in our nation. It’s time we lifted up our heroes and our heritage. This is our version of a truly great man.
“The problem is, we have been shut out of the Hollywood system. No distributor will touch our product. They claim it’s because the film is no good. You folks are going to be the first to ever see the finished version.
“If you find it to be as good as we think it is, we ask that you pray to see if you feel called to help us out. We don’t know what you can do. We don’t know precisely what to ask for here. All we feel able to say is, please, if you like the film, take it to the altar in prayer. Because without your help, we are done for.”
Brent started to walk away, then turned back and added, “If you want my opinion, we have fashioned something special here. Something that deserves a chance. This is not only about a small start-up Christian outfit being shut out of the Hollywood system. This is about an entertainment system that has no room for our values. Thank you. Enjoy the show.”
Brent and Trevor and Tim walked down to the front row, where Stanley and Liz sat with Bobby, Candace, Celia, and Jerry. There were quick embraces all around, and words that Brent really did not hear. All he clearly caught was the sincerity in their voices and their features. The assurance that he had not shamed them up there.
The lights darkened. The audience stirred and rustled and whispered. These church leaders had come to hear one of their own. Instead, Stanley had given up his evening as host pastor. Stanley Allcott, the man who had gone from prison to the pulpit of a major evangelical church. This should have been his night to shine, to demonstrate that his church was right to have awarded him this position. Instead, they got this.
Brent could well understand why they squirmed.
Then the hands appeared on the screen. They had gone back and forth over whether to add music, to score this with some inspirational tract. Instead, at Tim’s insistence, they had left it as it had been originally. The man’s hands folded the Bible shut and tied the tattered Book with binding twine. The cord rustled over speakers twenty feet tall. Then came the rush of wind, the swoop that Tim claimed sounded to him like the Spirit walking on tongues of flame. And the word Shoestring was formed with the cross at its heart.
In letters five stories tall.
It was the first time any of them had seen the concept on anything larger than the studio’s flatscreen.
Bobby Dupree leaned over his hands and wept.
Tim Crawford had done them proud. His grandmother’s favorite instrument opened with a melody like a rose-hued dawn. A country duo joined in. Not singing words nor following a tune any could name. Yet it all sounded hauntingly familiar, as though Tim had managed to capture some core essence to a thousand familiar gospel tunes, distilled it down to a thread of sound elevated by a pair of voices, now joined by a pair of violins, now by a dozen more voices, now a hundred, now a full orchestra. All humming a wordless hymn to a bygone era. To the heart of their shared beginnings. To the day they now lived.
The film ran four and a half minutes beyond two hours. Brent had wanted to cut another ten minutes but could not find them. Now, as he sat in his first audience and saw it from a distance he had never found in the editing room, he felt that he had done right not to cut further.
The final scene was one of his favorites. Boone sat on the porch of his cabin, one of over a dozen he had carved from the wilderness with his hands and his family’s help. His wife sat beside him. He talked of the next wilderness still ahead. Thieves disguised as tax men had stolen all but forty of the thirty thousand acres deeded to him by a grateful nation. Boone was world famous, yet too poor to afford a second mule. He had nine towns and three counties named after him. He had been lauded in Paris, London, Moscow, and Washington, places he had never been. Royalty he had never met spoke of him in awe.
Boone’s rocker was on the west-facing porch next to his wife’s, his face etched by more than one more sunset. He stared at mountains he could not see. They had been named the Rocky Mountains, and they called to him.
Daniel Boone was eighty-four years old.
He would never see those mountains.
The credits rolled. Tim Crawford sang a third and final time. Only this time it was a cappella. Not even his faithful guitar kept him company. Just a lone voice, singing about wind and freedom and frontiers and God.
The lights rose. Brent could not bring himself to look around, for fear that he would find half of the seats empty.
There was no sound.
Liz wiped her eyes and whispered, “Stand up.”
“What?”
“Go on, brother.” Tim Crawford used both hands to clear his face. “Don’t keep your fans waiting.”
Brent had to use the arms of his seat to rise to his feet.
The applause grew and grew and grew. Brent stood in utter shock, until it occurred to him to ask for some company.
They joined hands. Trevor and Candace and Jerry and Bobby and Celia and Tim.
The applause went on forever. Or so it seemed to Brent.
40
A few weeks later, Liz carried her fourth phone call of the morning into the bank’s elevator with her. When two early arriving ladies and one sleepy man crowded in, Liz said, “I’ll have to get back to you.” She shut the phone and sighed. Just past seven and already one of those days.
Then she realized what the ladies behind her were whispering about.
Liz turned around. “Are you talking about Long Hunter?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What have you heard?”
“Our pastor was at some meeting a while back. He said it was the first time he’d cried at a movie since he was nine years old.”
“Our pastor’s wife says she still dreams about the woman who plays Boone’s wife. I can’t remember her name.”
“Celia Breach,” Liz said.
“Don’t you know the director?”
“Brent Stark. Yes. He’s a dear friend.”
“Did you see the movie, Ms. Courtney?”
“I wept like a baby.”
“Is it true what the pastor said about Hollywood not giving them a chance?”
“They couldn’t find a distributor.”