‘Gesturing to the superstar Bachchan, who was now blabbing with his press agent, Swami said to me, in the King’s English, ‘You are now seeing an embodiment of the divine!’ And he proceeded to bless the entire event, and they let him and his bunch do anything they liked. They got a full course lunch, and when they were leaving, Swami G. came up to me, grabbed my hand and held it up, put his thumb on that red dot on his forehead, and then thumb-printed me on my own brow, and proclaimed, ‘You are a lucky man!’, and marched out, frontwards, this time. Hey, I’m not a Hindoo, who am I to argue?
‘So I dunno. It must be some kind of cosmic/karma thing, huh? But I think old Swami G. had something there. Maybe that’s what Star Quality – Star Power – is all about, baby. It’s from the beyond. It’s all about the stars, constellations, novas, and super-novas. Maybe even ultra-novas. We don’t even begin to know what all is out there.’
For once, Porter Parker was speechless.
45.
An Interview
Problems with the New Realism and its authoritarian doctrine were beginning to bother Butterbugs. It wasn’t as if he had ‘gone all political’ or anything. It was just that he was seeing – now that he was in the active realms of picture production – how much of a strain these purported audience demands were making on the filmmakers themselves. It was requiring them to pursue even more obsessive efforts in establishing a ‘credible’ basis for every damn shot and special effect; otherwise audiences might find the realism factor ‘unacceptable’.
It wasn’t just this one actor who was concerned. The higher professionals were, en masse.
A commission convened.
‘I am worried, lest motion pictures change for the worse!’ exclaimed the lovely, everyone-loves Vaundelle de Uieune. ‘I am not a realist. I am an actress, and what I do is not at all based on fact. It’s based on fancy!’
‘You will always be realistic enough for me, my dear,’ replied Edwin Knopf, producer of her latest wow-hit, ‘The Princess: A Medley’ (MGM).
‘Indeed, what’s happened to our art?’ queried Francis Ford Coppola, sounding unusually lost.
‘It’s there, if you make it that way!’ rebounded Knare Silvergold, Head of Production at Warner Bros., who was hosting the event. He was a big advocate in adhering to New Realism principles, mainly because WB was a chief beneficiary of its policies. Their recent New Realism films had been pop crap, but monster winners, while anything non-New Realist had been summarily defeated, dismissed, and dumped from Jack L.’s empire.
‘I guess I’m just an old man…’ Coppola’s voice trailed off.
‘Yeah, baby. Maybe you’re just a has-been!’
Heads of production tend not to make jokes. That’s why quietude resulted.
David Lynch then spake. ‘You know, you’re kind of giving away something, Knare. It’s all about profits, isn’t it? I mean, really.’
‘Yes it is, DL. You direct, I finance. Yer darn tootin’ it’s about money. Is that a new revelation to you, or somethin’?’
Liv Ullman: ‘I think what David’s getting at is that it’s much more than that. It’s the film itself, which isn’t just one thing.’
‘Yeah’ was all that Lynch added.
‘Oh, that argument’s as ancient as my hearing aid,’ said old-timer Robert D. Webb, director. ‘What the deal is, is that we’re all having to bust ass just to make a minor scene look like it was born, bred and buttered under the supervision of every last audience member – now and in the future – and based on their personal tastes and approvals! It’s enough to make me chuck it all and tend to my garden estates in the Imperial LeBaron Valley!’
The company of eminents clapped and hooted their agreement.
‘Maybe you should, Bob. You haven’t had a decent hit in years,’ interjected Bellamy Kumbo, a Universal exec, who sought to contain the enthusiasm. ‘Let us tend to the picture making.’
‘Shaddap, Kumbo. Count your bloody-ben beans, but leave the real picture making to the picture makers!’ countered Baz Luhrman.
‘Boys!’ scolded scriptor Helen Deutsch. ‘Let’s not slide into sandbox tactics. We must approach this issue with tempered reason.’
There was coughing, beverage-pouring, and a lack of significant follow-up to Helen’s challenge.
‘Helen, you’re always a peace-maker,’ said sister-scriptor Marguerite Roberts. ‘But I’m not sure if this can be a peaceful debate…’
Bertolucci, respected but voluntarily sidelined, seized the lull to spit some pith.
‘I think, how do you say, you are, eh, building real estate out on the thin ice. The great bulging nipple I once partook greedily from, in the days of truer cinema, has now gone rancid. Or, flat, I mean. Un-flated. Everybody knows I am no Jeremiah, but this, this, ‘New Realism’ really, how do you say it – sucks. If I want realism, I’ll call Antonioni.’
‘He’s right!’ Porter Parker sounded off.
‘At last, a money man who’s truthful,’ said John Frankenheimer.
‘I’m not just a moneyman, Johnny. I’ve got to work with you people, don’t I? But really, folks, let’s face it. This demanding, unwritten code of standards is killing us.’
‘Killing our souls,’ offered Spike Lee.
‘A quiet thought, Spike,’ said his usual lenser, Ernie Dickerson.
‘Yeah, well, it’s not exactly what the big boys want, is it? Retooling.’
‘Better that we roll over then die, instead of retool.’
Porter continued to step up. ‘Yeah, maybe. Some of us, maybe. But I tell you, it’ll start hitting us at the box office if we don’t. If we get too perfect, audiences’ll never accept it.’
‘What do you mean, too perfect?’ inquired David Lean, his neck and cheeks bulged out from recent kidney therapy.
‘Nothing personal, Sir Dave. You’re pretty much exempt of any such charges. You always achieve them!’
There was wry but appreciative laughter. Skeptics in the group, who had always regarded Porter as something of a pinwheel, were becoming duly impressed with him.
‘Well, anyway, if we do everything perfectly; if every part of a given picture is all anal, and provable in a court of law, and if audiences insist on pictures being more than what they should be, more than a documentary even, then we’re cooked.’
‘Aren’t we already there?’ asked Samuel Fuller.
‘No Sam,’ said Coppola, ‘I know what Parker’s saying. We used to aim at artistic perfection. OK, forget the ‘perfection’ word. The aim is what we want, not what we think some code wants. That’s old Hays and Breen Office shit. If we ever achieved what we wanted in our cinematic vision, the rest was gravy. Now we’ve got to have ‘perfection’ for its own sake.’
‘That’s why we’re over the barrel. We’ve just about sealed ourselves in,’ added Sam.
‘So what can we do, Porter, huh? What the hell can we do?’ asked Dawna Donndell, new director/producer in town.
‘If audiences are so fucked up, and we’re all catering to them, what’s the deal, Dawny-Donn?’
‘Well, audiences can be retrained.’
‘Yeah, and then they –’
‘Retrain? Did you say, retrained?’ interrupted Jonathan Narthex (of Jonathan Narthex Presents; he was one of the few today who attempted a Sam Goldwyn/Dave Selznick-style independence in the face of the mass of huge studio thumbs that were always held over his head.)
‘How… is an audience… ‘retrained’? Is it by instruction, or… coercion? Must it be forceful, or could it be a pleasant choice? Voluntary, or subliminal? Is it a mechanical or a philosophical change? Is this a job for the scribes, or for the tech side? Or for one big happy family? How then… how do we approach it? How do we make sense of it? What are we, crazy?’
‘Jonathan, Jonathan! Nothing but questions!’ said the always lovely Vaundelle de Uieune.
‘That’s all I have anymore…,’ added Francis, quietly.
Porter, right on cue, skillfully tapped into the growing
tone in the room, and each director and cameraperson simultaneously drew upon their own attentions, that went from long shot into tight close-up, whether by dolly or zoom or direct cut.
‘There’s this kid, see? You’ve all heard about him. Some of you have worked with him. There’s this kid. There’s Butterbugs.’
Interior, day: KDIM Color Television Studios, Varnforth Blvd, Hollywood.
Jay Drend, the booth announcer, prepped to be jazzed.
‘On Air’ light on.
‘Welcome! Yes, WELCOME – back to the Nayland Gribgrib Show! Nayland’s guest: Butterbugs. Yes, Butterbugs. You’ve waited to hear from him, and now here he is. See what you think of him. But first, several words from our fine sponsors!’
After a short medley of commercials for Frosty’s Mix, Hot Blots, Plush, Grandad Ted’s Frozen Soups ’n’ Salads, Parbendazozil for persons with Duragenitol needs, and Vincent’s Tomato Flavored Punch, the interview resumed:
Nayland Gribgrib: Back, back, back – buc-buc-buc! We are back. And in case any of you viewers out there forgot – or if you missed the teaser part of our interview, I am speaking today with that newborn wonder, a guy who really puts high-octane lubrication grease into his roles on selected stages, not to mention every possible screen – the new-time actor, the New Person known as: get ready – Butterbugs!
Butterbugs: Thanks for the generous introduction – yet again, Nayland.
NG: You know it! So, Butterbugs, I wanna proceed with that interesting subject we were yakking about during the short medley of commercials: showbiz itself. The very thing we do, in its every form. Just, just, what do you think, when you see some pathetic tap dancer trying to thrill you with his or her third-rate hoofing?
Bb: I think it’s terrific! Here’s somebody who perhaps can’t do much of anything else in life, and they’re at least trying.
NG: You’re so charitable. Generous, even!
Bb: Just like you, Nayland!
NG: That’s very funny. But listen. Don’t you get uncomfortable when someone confronts you with ‘I will entertain you now. Give me your attention.’ Hmm?
Bb: Well, if you put it in terms like that…
NG: But don’t you think it’s embarrassing?
Bb: For whom?
NG: Well, for both parties involved!
Bb: You mean, performer and audience.
NG: Uh-huh.
Bb: If the act is rubbishy…
NG: OK, Butterbugs, you’re not being very committed. In fact you’re being pretty vague.
Bb: Well, you know, uh, you know…
NG: I see I’ve got you there.
Bb: Well, I’ll tell you. What sort of value do we put on entertainment? It’s entertainment that you’re getting at, isn’t it? The whole showbiz ‘thang’. OK, it’s our subject. It’s a broad one. There’s something for everyone.
NG: Well said, Butterbugs, but don’t you think audiences are jaded today?
Bb: Certainly!
NG: So what about that pathetic tap dancer?
Bb: He or she is historical now!
NG: I see I’m not going to drag out your real opinions over that one.
Bb: That tap dancer? Pathetic? Probably so. Yes, I know. We like underdogs, but sometimes they’re just too… The pity comes out when you see something like that. The failure. That’s what we’re all afraid of, isn’t it? It’s what’s implied when you ask the question like that.
NG: Is that what you’re afraid of?
Bb: As a performer, of course. Fear of failure. Isn’t that pretty basic?
NG: Sorry, I wasn’t trying to be banal…
Bb: But that’s what you are being…
NG: Ahem. Do you think audiences want to see performers fail?
Bb: Audiences today, maybe…
NG: Really? So there’s a big part of the audience that wants failure?
Bb: You’re getting off into some strange stuff…
NG: Let’s get on to the subject of the purpose of entertainment. Do you think people are really impressed with entertainers? Beyond the special effects and the looks, I mean.
Bb: I think that people are pretty impressed with talent. But most think that they themselves are talented in some way. I think that – Well, let’s just say that there are a lot of self-appointed stars out there.
NG: Do you think that the personalities in showbiz today have the same pulling-power that they used to have?
Bb: I think it’s all done with mirrors today.
NG: An old fashioned fake magic act?
Bb: I was just kidding. No, I think people really eat up the New Realism. It’s proof that they’re getting ‘the real thing’.
NG: So you think the New Realism is good?
Bb: Absolutely.
Porter Parker, watching the interview on his entertainment center in his new office at Goth Studios, sat up and took special notice. ‘What??’
NG: In your pictures, will you adhere to the commitment to the New Realism? You know. Every bit of the Reepsville Policy?
Bb: I think you mean the Reepsville Accord. I’m not entirely sure that audiences know exactly what they’re getting these days. I’m totally committed to giving them the best and most real performance that I can muster. Really, I am. I don’t see any reason not to follow through with giving a genuine and convincing portrayal of a role that must be genuine and convincing in order for audiences to buy tickets to the picture show, or buy the DVD, either in the latest 3-D Realife mode, or standard flat screen. From what I’ve seen in this Industry so far, is that, if you want to participate in it, you’d better be prepared to give of your very soul if you want the genuineness to show through onto the screen. Actors have been striving for that since the Age of Brass, and we keep getting nearer and nearer to the sacred goal.
NG: Even cheap, pathetic tap dancers?
Bb: Even cheap, path – HEY! Stop calling them that! That’s getting a bit stale…
NG: Sorry, I’m just not compassionate enough, I guess.
Bb: Tell that to The Angry Black Priest, man.
NG: Yes, that’s right, you two used to hang out, haven’t you – I mean, didn’t you?
Bb: We’re good friends.
NG: So, here’s the biggest name in Wrap music, and one of the most promising faces of the New People, hanging out?
Bb: Strange as it seems. Yep.
NG: Is TABP backstage? Can we bring him out?
Bb: We’re both so busy that we’re lucky to give each other a ring every other week.
NG: Well, that’s quite a feather in your cap.
Bb: What, just knowing TABP?
NG: Well, yeah…
Bb: He’d get a big kick out of that. Knowing that I’m cashing in on his friendship.
NG: What are you, Mr. Big, or something? I’ll bet you don’t really know TABP. You couldn’t be that cool.
Bb: I’m not, I can assure you. But sir, I do know TABP.
NG: Oh yeah? Prove it!
Bb: I’ve, uh, got this here cell-type phone.
NG: Everybody’s got a cellphone, jellybean! And even smarter ones, too! Where you been?
Bb: Well, the difference is that I’ve got his number on my AutoDial. I can ring him up if you want.
NG: Oh, sure you can!
Bb: It’s already dialing. Can you patch into the voice-pug?
NG: Uh, I don’t know. Arlen? You mean you can? All right. If you in… sist… I guess so. But this is taking away the time for… I was going to ask other…
Bb: Won’t take a jiffy. This was one of your questions, wasn’t it? I’m just answering – Hey! TABP! I got you. Butterbugs here. Yeah. I’m on the Gribgrib show. Yeah. Live.
TABP: – that carnie-barker’s show?
Bb: Hey, you’re public now. We all hear you, loud and clear.
TABP: Fucking cool. Time zones don’t matter, baby –
Bb: TABP, the applause here, it’s crazy. They know it’s you.
TABP: Yeah, well, I guess I’ll just have to speak louder.
LOUDER! I know why you called, man. Yeah, this is I, The Angry Black Priest! I’m a personal friend of Butterbugs! I’m provin’ it right now! Anybody who doubts, gonna have me to fuck with! Is that what you needed?
Bb: My dear fellow, I’ll ask. Well, Nayland?
NG: Oh, my, yeah, wow, uh, gee, Mr. TABP, I’m really sorry – I’m mega-pleased to meet you, but sorry, really sorry –
TABP: So Butterbugs, aren’t you gonna ask me what’s shakin’?
Bb: As circumstances allow. Where are you tonight – er – this morning?
TABP: Ouagadougou, baby. Tomorrow it’s on to Wum, then San’aa, Mindinao, then Managua next month.
Bb: Keep spreading the truth, TABP.
TABP: Oh yeah, yeah. Thinkin’ of ya, man. Power to the performance. I loved ya in ‘The Horror At Jones Chapel’ (Oddball), Bb. Yoe-hey. But. Gotta go. Bus is coming. Don’t often say it, but: ‘Hope this helped’.
Bb: Vaya con Dios, baby. Ciao! Ladies and gentlemen, TABP!
Massive cheering and applause.
NG: Uh –
Bb: It’s OK; I’ve hung up now, Nayland.
NG: Well, I didn’t know you were so into meting out humiliation. I wonder if your conceit has made you into a Teflon wonder?
Bb: Interviewer, you are having fun now, aren’t you? Can’t we just be ordinary from here on, or are you that much in fear of sagging ratings?
NG: I thought I was supposed to be the one who asked the questions!
Bb: Sure! Shoot.
NG: How do you feel, being pegged as one of the New People?
Forward to Glory Page 50