Celluloid Memories

by Sandra Kitt

  Punch dropped the script on his desk and used his curled knuckles to knock on the top page for emphasis. “I’ve read a lot of scripts, but this is the first one by a total novice that was this well done.” He shook his head. “Let me correct myself. You’re not a total outsider. You probably have a very good idea of how things work in Hollywood because of your father. I knew Will Shelton casually. Sorry to hear of his passing.”

  “You were right the first time. I am an outsider. My father never discussed his career with me and, frankly, I’ve never been interested myself in a Hollywood career.”

  “But you wrote this script. Why not a novel? Essay?”

  “I guess it could have been done as either of those. But, the idea came to me in pictures. I could see the action.”

  “It’s one hell of an idea. Where did it come from?”

  Savannah hesitated. She had no clue what might have happened to Rae Marie Hilton, but felt the need to be protective of the former actress’s name and history.

  “I wrote it as a what-if story. I saw it as a cautionary tale about how far people are willing to go to get what they want and the price to be paid. We make deals and compromises all the time in our lives. When you add in the race card and Hollywood, a place that’s all about make-believe and encouraging people to pretend to be someone else, then I think my story has really tragic consequences.”

  As she was talking, Savannah was aware of the way Punch was watching her. She wasn’t sure he was really listening to what she had to say. He seemed to be assessing her for his own reasons.

  “Fantastic,” he said thoughtfully. Then he sat back. “You know, when Tyrone asked me to read the script I blew him off. I can’t tell you how many times I’m asked to read someone’s script. Of course, that’s what I’m supposed to do. That’s how I find people who might stand a chance in L.A. Most of what I read, unfortunately, is pretty bad. I like your writing. I like what you have to say in your story,” Punch said, again knocking the top of the script to make his point.

  “Thank you,” Savannah said, pleased.

  “Of course, you want to know what to do with it, and what I can do to help. I have some minor changes to suggest.”

  “Well, actually…” she began and was cut off.

  “It’s still not easy getting projects by black writers green-lighted in this town, unless you have a popular rapper, rising star or someone the studios are interested in pushing attached.” He leaned across his desk, eyeing her. “Who do you see as the female lead?”

  Savannah stared blankly at him. “I don’t know. I only wanted to…”

  “Well, now’s a good time to start thinking about that. It’s going to take a particular kind of female. Someone like Alicia Keyes has the look.”

  Savannah frowned. Alicia Keyes would be all wrong.

  “But she might not want this as her first film vehicle. Too serious. We’d lose the fifteen-to-thirty audience.”

  “You talk as if my script is definitely going to be a movie,” Savannah said, with a trace of excitement in her voice.

  Punch Wagoner was moving ahead fast, and her head was spinning.

  “Isn’t that what you want? Yeah, it could happen. It’s going to take some work and persuading. This isn’t an easy story to tell or sell, and it’s bound to get a lot of folks upset.”

  Punch was looking for something else on his somewhat unorganized desk when his phone rang. He picked up immediately, announcing his name briskly as a greeting. It was the way he’d answered the phone when she’d finally called two days earlier.

  “Sorry, I have to take this call,” Punch told her for the second time since she’d sat down with him.

  He found what he was looking for and passed it across the desk for her to read while she waited. Savannah saw that she’d been given a contract that laid out the terms of his willingness to represent her as a manager for the purpose of working to secure an option on, and subsequent sale of her work, Fade to Black, to a studio to be produced as a feature film or made-for-TV movie.

  Savannah felt her stomach roil as she read the paper. It was formal. The language was intimidating and precise. She was being moved out of her comfort zone of Rae Marie’s life just being an idea for a script. It now had the potential to become a viable project. When she’d started writing she hadn’t forseen the project getting this far. If not, why had she bothered writing the story at all?

  “It’s a boilerplate contract,” Punch Wagoner’s voice broke into her thoughts. “If you agree to let me represent you I’ll go out and pitch the idea to a short list of directors and producers. I’ll let a few of them read your script to generate interest. After that I try to get you a good option payment against the outright purchase price. You don’t have to understand all of that right now. After you sign the agreement I can get started. I already have one producer in mind. He has a three-picture deal with…”

  His voice faded, and the words on the form began to run together and blur until they had no meaning. Savannah glanced up at Punch. He was waiting for her answer.

  “Can I have a few days to read through this and think about it?”

  “Don’t wait too long,” was his response. “I have a lot of things I’m working on with a lot of folks, so you have to act quickly. Can you get back to me this week?”

  He made his announcement with a kind of offhanded indifference that made Savannah waver for a moment. She felt pressured and didn’t much like the feeling. She stood up to leave.

  “Thank you for your time. I know you’re very busy.”

  “Like I said, I think you have a strong script and a good story. I’m sure I can sell it for you. Let me know what you want me to do,” Punch said, getting up to walk her to the door. “And tell Tyrone that I’m still waiting for that demo disc he’s been promising to play for me.”

  Savannah was expecting that he’d say more to put her mind at rest instead of talking as if projects and writers like her were a dime a dozen. But she recognized that there was a real opportunity being offered here. What would her father advise her to do?

  “I’ll call you as soon as I can,” Savannah promised.

  At his office door Punch Wagoner already appeared distracted. “You do that,” he said, closing the door on her.

  Confused and annoyed, Savannah left the building knowing that although she’d managed to wrangle some extra time she wasn’t really sure what her next move should be.

  Back in her car, Savannah just sat, going over the entire exchange with Punch Wagoner. For a minute she came that close to signing the contract he’d given her and telling him to do whatever he could. She felt an adrenaline rush, spurred by Punch’s obvious enthusiasm. She felt almost light-headed at the prospect of actually having her story taken seriously, and Rae Marie’s life vindicated.

  Suddenly, Savannah thought of her father, and all he must have gone through over the years. The hard work it had taken not only trying to prove his own talent, but also building the right kind of support around him to make his career possible. It couldn’t have been easy, and maybe it wasn’t supposed to be. It was ironic that it seemed to be happening so fast for her. Was this what she wanted for her own life? To be caught up in the Hollywood fantasy machine?

  Could she be any less brave then Rae Marie, or her own father?

  Savannah opened her cell phone and entered McCoy’s office number. The assistant answered and informed her that Mr. Sutton was out of the office for most of the day, but he’d be sure to give him her message when he called in.

  “Please tell Mr. Sutton that I need his advice on a contract I’ve been given to sign,” Savannah added.

  “Will he know what it’s about?”

  “No,” Savannah admitted. “But I have it with me. Can I drop a copy off for him?”

  “That’s a good idea and will save time. Do you have the address?”

  Savannah drove to McCoy’s Century City office. The male assistant met her in the reception area where she handed him the contract. H
e glanced quickly over the first page.

  “Is this about a real estate deal?”

  “It’s about this,” Savannah said, pulling a copy of the script from her tote bag.

  “Fine,” he said. “I’ll make a copy of the contract and give the original back to you. It’ll just take a minute.”

  Savannah thanked him for his trouble, and in less than fifteen minutes she was back in her car and on her way to her office. It was only then that she felt somewhat relieved and began to settle down. Only then did she believe as well that everything would work out.

  It was almost three-thirty when McCoy called her.

  “Sorry I couldn’t get back to you sooner,” he said.

  “I’m sorry I called on such short notice.”

  “I haven’t had a chance to read through those papers yet, but I wanted to make sure you’re okay.” McCoy said.

  “Yes, I’m fine. I just didn’t want to sign anything without checking it out first.”

  “Smart move.”

  “But it can wait for a day or two,” Savannah offered.

  “No, let’s deal with it now. Can you come by my office later? I’ll have the contract read by then and we can talk.”

  Savannah hesitated. Of course she wanted to know what McCoy thought, and to get his insights, but she felt uncomfortable, nonetheless, asking him.

  “I can be there by six.”

  “Good. See you then.”

  After hearing from McCoy, Savannah’s anxiety returned, and she couldn’t say why. There was certainly a sense of anticipation, but also something else that was harder to define. For a while she even wondered if it had been a good idea to call McCoy at all, to involve him, but there was no one else she felt she could trust to be honest with her.

  Well, maybe her father’s former agent, Simon Raskin, but that also did not sit well with Savannah.

  As the rest of the afternoon unfolded it finally occurred to her to call Taj with the latest information about her script.

  “The Man himself is willing to take you on? Hey, I’m not surprised. That’s why I went to him. Are you going to sign an agreement?” Taj asked Savannah.

  “I’m thinking about it, Taj. The contract looked a little complicated and I want to take my time reading it to make sure I understood.”

  “You can’t get no better than Punch Wagoner, Baby Girl, and he’s one of us. He’ll watch out for you.”

  “You’re probably right, but he was okay with me getting back to him.”

  “I guess I should congratulate you.”

  “Taj, I haven’t done anything yet. Right now it’s still just a script.”

  “I’ll make you a bet that something happens with it.”

  “What are you willing to bet?” Savannah asked, getting into the spirit of the moment.

  “Double or nothing. If you’re right, and the deal dies a quick and natural death, then you don’t owe me anything. But if I win, then it’s the whole nine yards times two.”

  “Even if I’m right, Taj, then I’ll have to do something for you. I wouldn’t have gotten this far without your help.”

  “You know, maybe I should become an agent like Punch. Hell, you could’ve been my first client,” Taj bemoaned the loss, making Savannah laugh.

  But when she arrived later that afternoon at McCoy’s office the humor of that moment had vanished. She was still no less anxious to hear what he had to say about the management agreement Punch Wagoner wanted her to sign.

  The assistant was waiting and led her right into McCoy’s office. Savannah tried not to read anything into the fact that Mac hadn’t met her himself. As a matter of fact, when she entered his office, he was not seated at his desk or standing in front of it to greet her. Instead, Savannah found him staring out the window, his back to her.

  “Ms. Shelton is here,” the assistant announced.

  “Thanks,” Savannah said to him as he left, closing the door behind him.

  It was only a matter of seconds before McCoy finally turned from the window but to her it seemed interminable. Something felt off, and she felt the need to apologize.

  “If this isn’t a good time, I…”

  “This is as good a time as any,” McCoy said, sitting down at his desk, and indicating one of the two chairs in front of it where she was to take a seat.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  The question sounded formulaic to her. She shrugged. “Confused and harried. So much is happening.”

  “You certainly have been busy,” he commented.

  Savannah frowned. “Not really. The script and the contract all came about pretty fast. I had no particular thought or plan.”

  McCoy sat back in a relaxed position, his legs crossed at the knees. It was then that she noticed two things. He held in his hand, not the contract from Punch Wagoner but the copy of Fade to Black. The second thing was the tone of his voice. As he silently and thoughtfully scanned the first few pages of the script a third came to mind. Mac seemed to be avoiding meeting her gaze.

  The revelations caught Savannah off guard and left her startled. He had not greeted her at all. Gone was any sign that they knew one another, that there had just recently been conversation, laughter and a kiss between them that was still open to interpretation.

  “You wrote this?” McCoy finally asked.

  “Why is everyone so surprised by that?” Savannah asked. “Yes, I did.”

  “I wasn’t questioning the authenticity,” McCoy said calmly. “Just expressing my admiration and my awareness that it’s a good script.”

  “Thank you,” Savannah said quietly, bewildered by his formality, and not even sure that he was actually paying her a compliment.

  In that moment McCoy finally gazed into her eyes. His were clear, focused and coolly professional. Now he gave her his complete attention, and Savannah reasoned that he was doing exactly what she needed him to do—being serious in his appraisal and advice. She suddenly realized that it was she who had to make the adjustment and accept that she’d called him on a business matter, and that he was behaving in an appropriate businesslike way. But she found it unsettling.

  Savannah realized she was looking for much more in his eyes. The something that would have reassured her, and that would not necessarily have been all about business, but also about…

  About what? Their knowledge of each other? Growing camaraderie? Affection?

  “I had to read it quickly, but I enjoyed it,” McCoy said.

  “I didn’t mean to rush you,” Savannah said.

  “I’ll read it again, when I can take my time, but I think what you’ve done is very good. The concept is fresh and daring, with a lot of heart and a lot to say.”

  “Thank you,” Savannah said again, this time warmly and with relief. “I had no idea what I was doing. I was writing by the seat of my pants,” she attempted to joke. It fell flat.

  McCoy suddenly fastened a speculative searching look on her. “Why this story? Is it based on someone you know?”

  “Why are you asking?” she countered.

  “It’s a painful story, Savannah. Very revealing, and very humiliating,” McCoy said. “It airs some of our own dirty laundry from the history of black Americans. The story is filled with desperation, but it’s also about someone who was undeniably brave. Who do you know who’s like this character?”

  Savannah was surprised by the sharpness of McCoy’s question, but she knew she shouldn’t have been. One of the reasons she’d thought to discuss her project and the contract with him at all was because she believed she could trust his opinion.

  “Her name is Rae Marie Hilton. I don’t know her, but I found a lot of information about her in my father’s personal records. What I learned about her leads me to believe she was a black actress passing for white, and that my father was her friend and confidant. I’ve also seen some pictures of her. She was stunningly beautiful, and she did look white. That’s about it. I don’t know if she’s still alive or, if she is, where she lives. I�
�ve found very little about her career as an actress and nothing about her personal life. It’s as though she’s vanished from the face of the earth.”

  McCoy was closely watching her as she spoke, but again, as with Punch Wagoner that morning, Savannah had the sense that he was studying her, appraising her as well. She didn’t understand why he’d feel the need to. She’d allowed him to get closer to her than any man had in a long time.

  He nodded in understanding when she’d finished what she knew about Rae Marie. “Is your script based entirely on her?”

  “No, it’s not. I only used her as the model for my heroine. I made up the story to suit my theme.”

  “And that is?”

  “Be careful what you wish for.”

  “I see that,” McCoy said.

  He grew silent, once again giving his attention to the script, taking time to reread random pages. He pursed his lips and furrowed his brow and seemed to be considering much more than she was asking of him.

  “Mac, I want you to be honest. You won’t hurt my feelings, I promise. I don’t want to make a fool of myself. Should I put it in a drawer and forget about it?”

  “No, you definitely should not do that,” he said, pulling his chair up to the desk and seeming to settle down to the business at hand. “Let me make something clear. I’m not an entertainment attorney.”

  “I know that.”

  “So you have to take what I tell you with a grain of salt.”

  “I trust what you’ll tell me because I believe you’ll be fair.”

  “I appreciate your faith in me,” he said coolly, “But let me tell you what I see here.”

  Savannah was surprised by the thorough and thoughtful assessment he gave her script. Like Punch Wagoner, McCoy was honest about what he saw as her chances for selling her concept, the bottom line for any producer or director being whether there’s an audience, or if a film will earn back the investment.

  “I think Punch was being straight with you about that part. It’s an excellent script and story, but Hollywood has been known to go for total nonsense to make money,” he said dryly. “The first thing I want you to do is to register a copy of your script with the Writer’s Guild of America. It acts like a copyright office for the film industry. Do it tomorrow on your lunch break. And make sure you keep all your original notes and computer versions of the script. Just in case.”