Forward to Glory

by Brian Paul Bach

  ‘My soul may not be as beatific as the Elephant Man’s’, she was fond of saying. ‘But the acreage of my estate is infinitely more palatable, and full of more mojo, too.’

  Indeed, she had most of ‘hot’ Hollywood genuinely swooning over her, for reasons they could never have imagined, pre-Shonnaleen. Suffice it to say, her genius was so seductive that whole new criteria sets, outlining what was sexy and what was beloved, were constantly being juggled about in the power echelons of the Industry, and beyond. Hip ’n’ happenin’ white boy producers, goys included, fresh from Shonnaleen sessions, would emerge from her office, zinging with high concepts of exploiting black blubber on the screen, so entranced were they at the mega-operative’s power and charms. A discreet follow-up phone call, direct from the lady herself, usually kept these baboons from dumping the lean/mean look for brave new ebony tonnage. Her point wasn’t so much to enforce as it was to introduce. But she kept the option of a major public taste tilt in mind, in case she got pissed off at the Industry in general and wanted a sea change in audience preferences to come down a bit more in her favor. And she could do it, too. There was no clear label to be branded on her hippopotomean buttocks, where not even a tattoo applied with a blowtorch would ever ‘take’ amongst the Frank Gehry ripples. Therefore, there was nothing for it but to refer to her as a force of nature.

  Because Hollywood needed nature. More than ever.

  But one of the most remarkable things about Shonnaleen was that she was also a force for beneficent change. Starting as a ‘consultant’ (for all practical purposes, an agent), she had avoided becoming a rival to Sonny all along. Her organization matured into a concern that arched further overhead than mere representation. Besides, Sonny himself was a silent partner in her endeavors. As her expanse grew (she lost even more weight for a time, then decided to regain it to maintain her streak of luck), so did the possibilities of change, a biz-wide change, begin to open up for her consideration and implementation. A multiplicity of talents and activities provided for her to become something far more transcendent than a mere phone-jockey as a means to achievement and leverage.

  There really weren’t many adequate words to describe her, now that she was ensconced on one of showbiz’s highest mountaintops. Not an agent, not a consultant, not a ‘player’, but more of a trend-setter, tone-setter, adviser. One who dictates etiquette, as it were, while wielding power and influence. Advice (or was it transcendental wisdom?) emanated from her massy heights, and just as often policy. Rather like a head of the Federal Reserve, except one with a heart.

  She was, in fact, Gaia.

  Butterbugs and Shonnaleen, quite naturally steered together through the Sonny pipeline, took to each other immediately.

  ‘He is a different one, somehow…,’ she whispered to Sonny, upon her first sight of the young actor as he approached her compelling office via a colonnade of Ennis House castings (specially supervised for Shonnaleen by FLW’s grandson, Eric Lloyd Wright).

  Wide-eyed all along the way, Butterbugs was reminded of Sid’s Metropolitan Theatre, with its powerful but lovable strangeness, lavish tapestries, otherworldly concrete, and indescribable importance.

  ‘Same architect?’ he asked himself.

  When at last he reached the final arrival carpet, where key-lighting nicely exposed the given visitor, the great Gubbins got in one more confidentiality before formalities commenced.

  ‘Yes indeed, different is the one word – for now.’

  ‘The simplicity of your observation is all ye need to know, SG,’ Sonny replied proudly. ‘Right-on, right-on, right-on!!’

  Sonny chaperoned only once. After that, they were on their own.

  Actor and force of nature would regularly convene, each time in a different nook of her labyrinthine headquarters, so deliriously decorated and luxuriously appointed. One week they would hobnob in a salon of pink and yellow stained glass, the next they’d be lounging in a den surrounded by Ottoman-blue tile work.

  She had over thirty chambers set up in different styles and cultural ambiences, from her own Swasawayo heritage tribe in Congo (Brazzaville) to jugendstil-era Riga to late Manchu Peking. There was even a scaled-down tribute-room of the main hall of Halsey Ricardo’s Peacock House in Kensington, carefully recreated at great cost.

  ‘No mere moods of mine, Butterbugs, although each atmosphere and tone is hoppin’ delicious to me. The diversity of our biz is here reflected under my roof. A different style for any kind of negotiation. You wouldn’t believe the success they’ve brought.’

  ‘Each one is a success to me!’ he cheerily replied.

  ‘It’s a long way from Custard, Ohio, eh?’

  ‘And my own native place, as well, Shonna!’

  ‘We kinda like the new ways, don’t we?’

  ‘Oh, for sure! Say Shonna, did you ever take university, or anything?’

  ‘Huh-uh. Nowhere near.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘Perfectly acceptable.’

  ‘So, who did the –’

  ‘I did, Sugarbugs. I went on ‘idea’ binges. Library books, coffee table volumes, some web trawling, invites over to homes, both stately and trailerian. Yeah, the money’s rolled, but that’s just the mundane part. You conceive first, then plan, then put the money to work for the realization.’

  ‘Awfully darn akin to motion picture makings!’

  ‘Bingo, Butter!’

  ‘The conventional wisdom is that the money’s the thing, not the play…’

  ‘That’s why ‘conventional’ is such a repeated failure. Remember, the money’s a mere lower-level side-effect. Never give it more consideration than it deserves. Otherwise you get sucked in and fucked over.’

  ‘I’m in total harmony with what you’re saying!’

  ‘Yeah, we need it all right. Money, that is. But now, I’m diggin’ the givin’ more than the makin’.’

  Butterbugs was near to tearing up.

  ‘Hey baby, you gonna start bawling or something?’

  ‘Oh, no, Shonna. Not at all. Think I’ve got a bit of tweed in my tear duct, is all…’

  ‘No need to hide your true emotions, serious actor. Especially around here.’

  ‘It’s just that (sniff), I kind of get more teary when things are so wonderful than when they’re about nine times worse than bad…!’

  ‘Like, in a movie? You know, watching a movie, not makin’ one.’

  ‘Oh yeah! Or even a sentimental chicken feed commercial – if it’s done right.’

  ‘You, too??’

  ‘Oh yeah, I’m just a big mush-baby.’

  ‘You sweetness!’ She reached over and kissed his hand, then checked to see if she had any stanching cloth.

  ‘And you’re a big warmth!’ he added, fully crying now.

  ‘Damn right I am, Butters. That’s where the real human action lies.’

  ‘Thanks, Shonna. Thing is, I get kinda embarrassed…’

  ‘You mean, to shed some rain over your reception of what our Industry can deliver on occasion?’

  ‘Oh yeah…’

  ‘No, no, no. Shed tears. Go with the emotion. Unbridle. Tell anyone who smirks that you wanna be alone with it. Emotional flow is one of the glories of experiencing the cinema. And it’s usually best when solo. That way, it’s just you and the film – its characters, settings, music. The whole package, baby.’

  ‘You’re so right! So many opportunities to plunge into private pleasure, and escape the ordinary hangups over the natural instinct to emote.’

  ‘You’re gettin’ it, Butterbugs.’

  ‘I mean, there are so many times I’ve wanted to ‘let loose’, even in private, but I don’t! But, Shonna, I will!’

  ‘I’m a wasteland of weepery every time I see ‘The Lost Cartography of Upper Gridgia’ (MunJun International, 1999)! It’s such bliss!’ Shonnaleen daubed her eyes.

  ‘True! ‘The Song of Bernadette’ (20th, 1943) always wipes me out.’

  ‘And all over the floor and out th
e door! Like you, me, and everyone else.’

  ‘And we aren’t even Catholics!’

  ‘Nor ultramontanes!’

  ‘Nor even albigenses!’

  ‘Doesn’t really matter! We don’t have to be. Don’t have to be a First Nation-person, either, to be demolished by ‘Wounded Knees Are Wounded Hearts’ (RKO, 2001).’

  ‘And what about ‘We Are The Slaves Of Drum Island’ (Jonathan Narthex Presents, 1987)? Melts me down!’

  ‘We’re re-birthing humanitarianism, all by ourselves here, aren’t we, sweet one?’

  ‘Oh Shonna, the tears you see on me now are such a catharsis!’

  ‘Hey there! Speaking of which, let me tell you, I cried a Zambezi about eighteen times during ‘The Albigenses’ (Selznick)!’

  Butterbugs honked into the hand-towel-sized serviette Shonnaleen handed him.

  ‘You know, Shonna. I’m so glad you brought this subject up.’

  ‘In that case, I’m glad I brought you to tears, growing actor!’

  ‘You know why? Because, in my craft, I’ve previously been somewhat hesitant to get – I don’t know – properly emotional when playing certain scenes.’

  ‘Like, it’s not cool, or it’s unfashionable, or something sillier.’

  ‘Yeah! You got it. It’s like it’s an unwritten code or some –’

  ‘Some bullshit, to use the colloquial term.’

  ‘Right on! I think I fall into it without self-knowledge, and I need to critique stuff in that context, even as I’m spewing out the lines.’

  ‘Really now, doesn’t the dy-rector sorta guide you on delivery and…’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, certainly. Most are great. I’m just trying to sort out my half of the equation.’

  ‘Your creative contribution.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Well, I ain’t no dy-rector, sugar, but all I can say right now, in the midst of all your intellectualizing over your performance, don’t be afraid to make your audience cry.’

  ‘Shonna, I can’t properly convey to you how helpful you are, or how perfect…!’

  A hug from Shonnaleen was a life-changing experience.

  On another occasion, Butterbugs resumed his exploration of Shonnaleen’s singular evolution from custodial sub-sub-sub-engineer to showbiz phenomenon.

  ‘Your erudition, your exquisite taste, your strength in the confidence of your actions… They’re all absolutely inspiring, Shonna.’

  ‘I’ve gotta tell you Bee-pollen-bugs, compliments are a human interaction I do not mind at all.’

  ‘I love to pay them, too.’

  ‘It’s not just a case of classic ‘carpe diem’. It’s the seizing of the opportunities. Equivocation has no place in my big ol’ M.O.’

  ‘You’ve already gone that route. The equivocating – to yourself.’

  ‘To a dead end, baby.’

  ‘Except… it wasn’t…’

  ‘Not at all. Unless it was perceived so.’

  ‘Wish I’d known you when I myself was facing one.’

  ‘How could you have known such realizations at that particular juncture in the space-time continuum, Butterbugs? Who of us knew how you languished, or even where? You yourself did not even know of your latent horseradish deficiency, or the collision-course perimeters therein!’

  ‘You are one of the few to whom I have imparted that rather arcane scrap of minutiæ.’

  ‘And it will always be safe in my heart. Look at all the bulwarks they would have to storm, in order to wrest it from me!’

  ‘I take such enrichment from you, Shonna. I hope I repay it in kind.’

  ‘Like me, you are the receiver of miracles!’

  ‘We are joined therein!’ the actor replied, with quiet but sky-high joy.

  ‘We’re in the business of creating worlds, babe. You make a lot of ’em on the screen, I’ve made one here.’

  She spread out her arms in full, ultra-wide presentational pose.

  ‘Just – this place! What a wonder!’ Butterbugs was like a little kid on his first visit to a movie palace.

  ‘Once I was liberated, my own true self took off. I observed the world, and picked up on its ideas, ran ’em through my own mind, and just let it all happen. I found I could grow, advance. So stimulated, I could come up with my own versions of what I wanted, and what I wanted to pursue. No help from anyone, at first. Then, helpers appeared, once they saw what I was doin’, and once I let ’em in. You gotta watch who you let in, and you gotta make the final decision each time.’

  ‘I’ll remember that.’

  ‘Damn right you will. I’m all over the map, too. Not that I travel much (hell, I’d need a freighter!). I’m constantly gleaning, absorbing, considering. Janitorial heritage, you might say. I’m most grateful for it.’

  He would sit amongst her foothills and listen to her offerings. No Olympian, she was rather more like a Huang Shan, the pictorial mountains in old Anhui Provence, where mystery and æsthetic fog might appear in her utterances as much as clarity and bracing air.

  For an amusement, she once put Alan Hovhaness’ tone poem, ‘Mysterious Mountain’ on the stereo in her office when they had a ‘consultancy’. However, both found the music scored her impromptu thoughts perfectly. Indeed, it enhanced and deepened them, movie-style. So scoring became mandatory, based on Shonnaleen’s tone of the moment.

  What they talked about was between the two of them only. Because in effect, both had risen from what amounted to the gutter. There was an instant and lasting bond between them, the frontiers of which were unknown, even in their subconscious awarenesses. It was unbespoken, but each knew the other was not at all ruled by pride. Ambition there was, though couched in humility, humanity, and other life-giving virtues that were getting their chance to bloom.

  Such was their inherent realism, their reality upon which to build, and it was hardly new.

  Once, over some smooching, they talked quite frankly of having an affair. Butterbugs was in between Cody and Justy, and the omens were good. Both being in Top Priority Work Mode though, they cheerfully agreed to add the matter to their communal To Ponder list.

  50.

  Digital, Absolutely Digital; But Wait –

  In point of fact, Butterbugs was hurt by the Saskia–Justina liaison.

  At first. At the very first moment.

  In quick time though, he realized the benefits of such a ménage à trois. It was because he discovered that, within it, sincerity ruled, and there was absolute solidarity, in three very equal parts. Not only were love and intimacy involved, these were people he could depend on. He’d never had such a thing in a domestic situation before. Because he was not particularly psychologically damaged as a result of this disparity of existence though, he glommed willingly onto the golden opportunity without any invisible wires to hold him back. His baggage was light as a wispy cloud. That being the case, he alleviated any load the other two might still be carrying inside, for whatever reasons. In other words, he adapted. What’s more, he fully appreciated the adaptation.

  The best part of the relationship, and not just for Butterbugs, was the honest checks and balances in play. No one favored the other at the expense of the other other. No forced virtues, either. That’s why the sincerity was naturally-occurring.

  His fears that an essentially lesbian partnership with accessory boy-toy options would emerge from the union were wholly scotched on the occasion of their first all-together-now love making-and-taking session. It took place on the plains of the Chianti Chamber’s expansive balcony, on the first full-moon night of Saskia’s moving-in. Justy already had a keen sense of atmospheric design, but Saskia brought with her a fabulous array of accouterments, hangings, paintings and assorted relics to add to the mix, infusing a uniquely heady sensuality that was irresistible. Certain of her objects had been acquired from her late uncle, Dodge-Jerry Kitherington, longtime art director at Shepperton Studios, who had fished some of his custom-designed props out of the rubbish bin after the filming of su
ch popular Ottoman and Eastern Empire-themed epics as ‘Yardumian and Illyuzl at Efflulzia’ (20th-Fox, 1959), ‘Vungo auf Razah’ (Lüttichow, 1961), and especially ‘Alexis of the Flaming Torches’ (Bronston, 1966). Thus, with an Italianate capacity for accommodation of pan-Mediterranean cultures, the villa’s diversity expanded as an art history museum’s would, upon receiving unexpected but welcome endowments.

  Anyway, the new protocol, with its attached appointments, seen by Butterbugs when he arrived home on the first Friday he didn’t have to remain late, amazed and refreshed him. Environment stood ready to aid inevitable attitude adjustments. It wasn’t that he had opposed or even been shocked by Justy’s gentle announcement that Saskia might enter their world. He was rather intrigued from the start. It wasn’t based on titillation, either. But there was the unattractive notion that he might, under such a new development, come to miss out on the essentials of building a meaningful and lasting relationship with an individual. His early solitude days and associated insecurities made for an understandable fear of being sidelined. Naturally, he didn’t want a reprise of the Cody affair, with all its promise, that nevertheless had segued into practicality.

  But here were his roommates, exciting, talented, and overwhelmingly attractive, making every effort, with dispatch, to prove not only his worth, but his full integration into the design for living they now proposed.

  He took them up on it.

  ‘This is going to be fun!’ he thought to himself.

  Not only was it fun, there was something amorphously holy about that first night. The dully smoldering braziers, the prune liqueur, the scented delights of their spread-out bolsters and fabrics, the quality and naturalness of their enjoinments, into which Saskia immediately connected with tenderness, aplomb – and love… These were just a few of the elements that made for ecstatic success. Further in, there were unlabeled details of great import that came together in an amalgam of security, pleasure, and even propriety. For, they easily determined, this was right action, to say the least.