Shaded, he eased into the Wurtzel cubbyhole house and had the privilege of a private viewing. There, true to Sydney’s word, a work print of the trademark footage was running in a loop. No musical track yet, but like everyone else who’d seen it, it was unnecessary, as Newman’s fanfare was programmed into every viewer’s brain. The footage was clean, it was brilliant, and it would more than do the job. DFZ’s grandeur came across, and the effort would undoubtedly prove worthwhile. That was Sonny’s 99.9%-accurate pocket review of this picture.
Well, what else could he do before lunch?
The countdown flashes at the beginning of the loop happened, at that second in time, to illuminate an annoying bit of rubbish on the right-hand inside curve of his Old Fitzgeralds, which he still wore.
If, by chance, he’d ever be taken to task for wearing darkers in the dark by anyone in the same room, had they existed, he’d probably hear some quip like: ‘Darryl’s goddam DeLuxe color’s so bright that everyone should wear protection’. He’d certainly kept the shades on in order to preserve his treasured anonymity in places like this, just in case someone he didn’t want to joust with showed up. But the coast was clear, so he held the tinted plastic up to the screen in order to gain perspective, and to expunge the offending cinder. In the process, he saw the sequence on the screen in its full glory. Inexorably, further analysis occurred. Grand, to be sure.
‘It’ll impress Peoria. Yowzah!’
A projection of Hollywood genius in picture-making to all – count ’em, all – corners of the globe, for sure. No discernible Fordian touches, but it was obviously made by a master, that’s for yeah-sure.
Yet, in the few seconds of the shot’s boom-ride showing the audience (a wacky, narcissistic notion, but it actually worked), one face stood out. One face was communicating. One face was emoting. One face caused a galvanization of the soul.
The soul of the viewer – or viewers.
It was not a haunting. It was tangible. It was like a building, full of meaning, full of light. Wondrousness begat wondrousness. A 99.9% surety.
Again and again he watched the loop. Again and again.
That face gazed at itself blearily in a mirror. Vonda’s bathroom (so much different from Marshall’s, back on that planet whose name he’d forgotten by now) was indeed a mind-boggler.
An actual studio, really, for ablution and/or elimination, high in concept or project. Black-on-black-on-chrome, with greenish-iodine pin-spots from above, designed to make black folks look steely, galvanized, invincible; and white folks ghastly, in decline, past-due. Basins, bowls, tanks and tubs of specially-distressed stone from the Great Rift Valley: channeled, difficult to negotiate, but, for the native of the soul, home.
Next, bidet, totally chromed, equipped with add-on irrigation tools and comfort stations. Other appliances stood out, but were unexplainable to him.
Butterbugs gazed into the special hologrammatic mirror, four meters by four meters, the electronic wetplate of which presented an arresting 3-D image of himself, and reflected back on him. With the futzing of a remote, he could tweak all aspects of his reflected person into all manner of racial, nationalistic and period costumery. A 180-degree rotation of the joy wheel made him Vonda’s racemate, and with costume interlock, he was at once a Bamako merchant, in clean white homespun, untouched by desertification.
Vonda (and her world) had caused a hidden revolution in his mind. His vale of tears was morphing into a comet-like streak of jumpcuts into another dimension. But there was no cause for rejoicing, because, at this time, he was too damn dull-witted to realize it.
Was this mirror thing a toy, by which an actor could try on role-wear via the talented twist of a dial, or was it a subversive threshold into uncertain personality-disordering tangents?
His dialing ended with him as a Parsee elder, and because he had no inkling of sacred fire, he put down the remote, plashed water on his (rather distinguished and now mustachioed) face, rinsed about half of Vonda’s primal scent from his hands – an action he regretted after he realized he’d done it – then turned away.
It was hours and hours since Vonda had left. He was too much of a small town boy to take this liberty any further. Such etiquette could stand as an excuse for an exodus. He’d better go.
Just before he set out on foot, he realized that it was now a probably-permissible timeframe in which to call the Vonda-given number, now fast receding into the palm-damp paper upon which it was written. Emboldened by sex (sex with the proper star), enough pride granules were returning to his fresco of self-esteem to pick up Vonda’s land line and inquire, via a little tap dance intro, by way of a Vonda reference, if it was OK to, uh, you know, be in a picture this morning.
The response was cordial after the V-name was cited, and what’s more, the location for the meeting was advantageous (for once) to him: in Harold’s Canyon: one canyon over from this here Coldwater.
Having been hologrammed in front of the mirror this morning, Butterbugs put down the phone in what was an automatically suggestive manner. It was almost too smooth an operation. What trust could he place in these suddenly invitational turns of events?
Then, a sort of Chinese practicality kicked in (perhaps it was because of the Ming Emperor costume he’d dialed in for a few seconds on the way to final Parsee identity, a little while ago…).
Fuck, and fuck again the upsetting, ultimately defeatist interior monologue of introspection! Set off on foot. Go to the Harold’s Canyon address given. Offer up one’s services for the sake of the cinema.
Now go!
He went. Off, on foot, out of the V(illa)V(onda)V(an)D(en)D(ell) cantonment, out into the scribbly overland, without looking back at the several black-on-black Maybach and Ludge SUVs that entered the driveway with purpose, while the team of trained GardzADaBody quickly secured the premises and locked it down, on the Mistress of the House’s behalf. They’d let him go without question, and considered it a good riddance.
Crossing over into Harold’s Canyon – it was like a new land. His seed, newly exercised in proper application, coursed through his loins, bringing vigor, focus, replenishment. The body was upright, the stride purposeful. Potency enabled muscularity, so that when he came down amongst the edges of the settlements that filled the fairest parts of the canyon, it was with pure Miklós Rózsa-composed triumph; think of the Marcia Della Vittoria and Esodo March in ‘Sodom and Gomorrah’ (20th-Fox, 1962), that moment in the score – that advance towards success, not aggression. There was no better sound for the moment. Only he was not as any old Stewart Granger character, but himself. Butterbugs, in his own character. For once. For always.
If there was no interval in his forward march to be had, well then, it was part of the same momentum that allowed for the searching actor to appear at the driveway, all wreathed in houseplant-like subtropics, leading to the specific address he’d been given: 44599 Toymaiden Lane, with a Bungo Security Watch medallion planted in the tinselly earth at the entrance.
One of those old-time dwellings, probably dating from the late 1960s, reflecting the flush of accomplishment created by an associate television producer, or the co-owner of a golf course in Montebello. Casual, modest luxury, with redwood-lined cathedral ceilings in ersatz Neutra mode, more suburban accents than a Marin County split-level, and plenty of cracked aggregate around the pool. Lush Mirage-style vegetation was everywhere, and ’70s-preferred ancillary wet-bars occupied key places, creating an ideal site for yet another quickie porno video.
The first face that came down the drive was boiled with the effects of morning vodka, a justification for succeeding in the tough and competitive realm of small-scale video production. It smiled crookedly, perched atop a Jimmy Buffet shirt of past happiness. Fahrter was his surname, but he went by Chenny. (Wouldn’t you?)
‘Hey. Was you the caller?’
‘I was.’
‘C’mon through, dude.’
‘I will.’
‘Hey, no need to be formal. We’re cool h
ere.’
‘Thanks.’
‘So, you’re the front guy?’
‘Front guy?’
‘Oh, that’s OK. Never, ever mind. Lemme get my butts. Want one?’
‘I do not smoke.’
‘You do not smoke. Good. Neither do I. Except every day. Heh! C’mon through.’
‘Thanks…’
‘OK. Your call. You got the number. That’s good. Thing is…’
Chenny scanned his brilliant phone’s incomings.
‘I don’t…’
‘I called, just a little while ago, I believe.’
‘You believe? Uh huh. Hey kid, how come you’re who you are?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What do I mean? What’s the deal, anyway?’
‘I do not know what you are talking about.’
‘You do not? Vonda Van Den D. sent you, right?’
‘She did.’
‘How’s come you’re not… well… you know… black? Or a chick?’
‘I do not understand.’
‘Oh, yeah, I get it. If you ‘do not understand’, then you should not understand. So how could you understand?’
Chenny’s over-enunciated parroting wasn’t going anywhere, so he eased up on the gentle mockery.
‘I get it. Jonny Greenhorn, right? Awright, awright. Vonda’s branching out. Nothing wrong with that. Nobody else in line. You’ll do.’
‘You mean, I’m in?’
‘You got it!’
Without further ado, Chenny pulled out his wallet and handed over three twenties in spot cash money. Up-front non-scale payment in times like these brought instant legitimacy for starving half-crazed actors like Butterbugs.
‘Well, thank you. What do I do? What’s the picture?’
‘Yeah, yeah, swell, yeah. You can go over by the pool and strip. Hazard’ll be by to get some promo shots.’
Strip. Was that a metaphor? A Method term? To strip one’s personality before donning the character’s psyche?
‘A script?’
‘Whuh?? Nah! We got it in our heads. Hazard’s really good with talk-through.’
Butterbugs looked puzzled.
Chenny caught on.
‘Oh. Yeah. You’re one of those ‘college’ kids. Good. That’s a lot of the market. Look, think of it like, uh, a silent movie. The cameraman cranks, and, uh, you do your own cranking! Heh.’
Butterbugs did not catch on, but he was still empowered by his mental Rózsa march, and the surroundings looked good-time and lush. He went over by the pool, but remained clothed.
Hazard to Chenny: ‘Is that the kid? He’s got his duds on, screwball!’
‘It’s OK, Haz. Let’s try a different angle to this one. Like, innocent shit, huh?’
Butterbugs milled about the diving board, glancing around the unpopulated pleasure pool.
Inside the house, Dana and Kent Shinndell, the creeps passing as ‘producers’, pushed in on Chenny.
‘Chenny, this isn’t another ‘surprise’ shoot, is it?’
‘Well Kint, yeah, it is. You know how that formula works. Shock the shit outa the vanilla stooge.’
Glancing out the window, Dana said, ‘He doesn’t look ready. I thought you said he was one of Vonda’s bozos.’
‘He is, Dane! And yeah, he shouldn’t be ready. They’re gonna mug him. Got it, baby?’
‘OK, OK, I get it, nutball. Is Haz ready?’
Chenny chirped into a walkie-talkie: ‘Haz. Cue the girls to get set. Roll ’em when you’re ready.’
‘How come you make Haz do all this dirty work?’ asked Kent.
‘Hey, with this kinda vid, I’m keeping my distance. I’d rather be associated with my friends. You know, Jenna, Porsche, Jeanna, Peter, and The Hedgehog. You know, the big times.’
Kent got mad.
‘Now looka here, Fahrt-face, we paid for this whole series, and that includes DVD supply to Nevada at CES-times. What gives you the right –’
‘Hey, bro,’ interjected Dana. ‘We got talent ready to go out there. I gotta be over in Alhambra this afternoon to do that fake snuffer. Think about it.’
‘Yeah, well…,’ growled Kent. Then, to Chenny, ‘Yeah well, I know Ron Jeremy too, shit-lips! And he…’
In the meantime, Hazard, the grunt director (well, head straw-boss), and Jared, the videographer (well, lenser), were haphazardly engaging Butterbugs in his first role in front of a camera. In Hollywood, no less. The realization was not lost on the actor: that this was some kind of rinkydink setup, maybe not even a filmmaking situation at all.
Before he had time to question things any further, so as to go into panic mode (which was not exactly characteristic of his modus operandi), Butterbugs kicked into what he determined to be his ‘professional’ gear. That is, to take direction in front of a camera. In times past, this was what he’d mentally prepared himself for. Not the contract signing or the credentials of the filmmakers, or the scale, or the perks, or even the scripts. It was all about the moment when the camera turns and performing is required. That was why, before anything else was settled or before any questions were asked, or any premises given, he did as he was told, in silent filming style, where the director would talk him through, while the palm-sized HHD-BroadbandBroadcastReady/Straight-to-U-Toob video camera rolled. He was that keen to act. Also, there was the matter of the sixty bucks. Which, he assumed, was some sort of down payment.
Time to earn it. Honorably.
Pure intoxication, holding him in the palm of its hand right now: the sudden reality of making a movie. Strange though it seemed. There was nothing for it now, but to, well, act.
‘OK, Person,’ Haz called out. ‘Strip down and wade into the pool. Lemme see your dick at all times.’
It was only subconscious knowledge that might have reminded him that he had been doing a few of his own nude ‘scenes’ lately. So, without too much of an objective or even Method motivation behind him, Butterbugs shed most of his clothes so as to wade into the pool’s shallow end, as instructed. The fact that it was most, rather than all, of his clothes didn’t seem to matter. No further direction ensued. At least the dollar bills that were his right would remain dry. Butterbugs just wasn’t the type to ask, ‘Is this a porno movie or something?’ quite yet.
Inside, the Shinndells followed the action through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
‘The dude didn’t even go to buck-nekkid.’
‘’S OK, Kint,’ said Dana. ‘The dude’s disposable. He gets caught in the middle.’
‘He looks kinda sickly.’
‘Doesn’t matter. Actually, perfect…!’
‘Shit…’
Butterbugs waded in.
‘Action!’ Haz muttered.
Out of the bushes on the left, and from the hedge on the right, exactly on cue, the rest of the cast, occult until now, made their big entrances.
The scene? Félicien Rops could have etched it! Salvador Dali would have creamed over it! Here, in nouveau-millennia Hollywood though, any potential ambience of classic decadence and/or surrealism wasn’t even discerned. No such talents were in play just now, nor were they intended to be. Butterbugs was relieved that he’d saved face by not asking what kind of production this was, after all.
All trace of mystery, subtlety, and uncertainty fled. The cat was out of the bag. Right now, the strategy of the big master shot was in play. Two phalanxes of Myrmidon/Amazons were heading towards Butterbugs, from either side of the pool, with two sets of wobbly bits on each.
The aspiring, no-longer-virginal actor’s gradual experience of late, the widening scope of which repeatedly revealed some of the things that go on in this town, was at this instant, widened somewhat further. This apparent ‘battle’ scene, amateurishly but strikingly staged, could be chalked up to yet another display of showbiz raunchiness. It was good to be cool about such things, because the role of playing the wide-eyed innocent all the time loses momentum in light of such onslaughts as lewdness and uncleanness. Yet, there
was no legitimacy hereabouts, leading to a cliché such as ‘I’ve seen it all, now’. No, despite the gathering expectancy of picaresque possibilities in these here canyons, hills and plains, there was no getting around the downright creativity that alleged perversion can spawn.
Still, it wasn’t as if he were shocked, or even disgusted. Or, at the other end of the spectrum, intrigued or titillated. It was just that, seeing the bawdy display of both the male organ and elements of the female form, here, in sort of a chorus-line repetition, the true significance of his sexual consummation last night began to demonstrate itself to his consciousness with a growing power.
As the poorly-organized but utilitarian splish-splash sea-battle of competitive orgying in the pool commenced, which, by the way, he was supposed to be the center of – and thus its victim – Butterbugs, lost in a sudden contemplation that was rapidly leading to inner joy and not a little private excitement, simply exited the pool in complete detachment.
In such battle scenes, especially when a wide-angle lens is employed, it can be hard to follow the blocking of extras. That’s why wristwatches, corpses scratching their heads, and jetliners in the sky over ancient Egypt can sneak into the frames of even the best period spectacles. With everyone having their hands (and available orifices) full during this complex take, the departure of the contrasting but supposedly central character in this sequence was not even noticed, let alone developed.
Into the shrubbery now, still dripping, Butterbugs donned his clothes, preoccupied with the abstracts of his recent benchmark of intimacy, the notions of which overrode all superficial experience of mind and body at the moment. He thought of nothing but what it was like to awaken, as if from a sepulchral state of dimness, to an unimagined world of sensuality and delight, and the success of being an actor in that world. Such a state was inconceivable before the present moment, that particular moment before the camera, when Porno kick-started his awareness of the sensuous Self.
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