“Not directly, but the real creator could get some nice TV interviews and print coverage, maybe hit collector’s shows and comic book shows to sell his autograph. If the movie does well enough, he could use that as a hook to sell a new project or trunk book.”
Joni sighed. “Okay, I’m convinced. It’s an actual phenomenon.”
Tilda was relieved. She’d run out of case studies pulled from the Web and used up the fifteen minutes’ worth of secondhand analysis from her sister June the research psychologist.
“The question is,” Joni said, “what do we do now?”
“Well, if you still want me to find Leviathan . . .”
“I definitely do.”
“Then I’ll start weeding out phonies.”
“How?”
“There are a few tricks I can try,” Tilda said, hoping she sounded mysterious, yet capable.
She must have nailed it, because Joni agreed, and Tilda promised to keep her up to date on progress. Once they hung up, Tilda let loose the sigh of relief she’d been holding in to maintain her air of competence, and threw herself down on the couch.
When she’d realized what she was up against the night before, she’d had to scramble to come up with enough background information to sound as if she hadn’t been totally blindsided. She really wanted this story and the chance to hang around the Pharos film shoot, which meant that she had to sell Joni on the idea that it was still feasible. Now that she had, all she had to do was figure out how she was going to work it.
Since sprawling on the couch was probably not her best option, she went back to the Web to find out how the phonies she’d mentioned to Joni had been found out.
With the ersatz Tommy Rall, a woman named Car-ole Shmurak was a fan and had posted some biographical information about Rall on IMDb, including the fact that the dancer was retired. A woman from Texas had e-mailed Shmurak and said she knew a dance teacher who said he was Rall, but she wouldn’t give his name. Anybody else might have left it at that, but Shmurak was a mystery writer, and decided to track the guy down—Tilda had to respect that. It turned out there were all kinds of inconsistencies in the guy’s story, and he was quickly exposed.
As for the munchkins, some were found out because they were way too young to have possibly been in the movie. Others were revealed by the real munchkins, who knew their fellow actors, and others because movie buffs knew far more about The Wizard of Oz than they did. When you know who the real mayor of Munchkinland was, it’s easy to identify imposters.
Tilda would’ve loved to have used the last method—finding the real Leviathan—but for the present she could focus on figuring out which of the wannabe Leviathans knew enough to put together a credible story.
First things first. She made a list of all the candidates and their e-mail addresses so she could keep them straight. Yet another wannabe popped up as she was setting up the file, but since he couldn’t even spell Leviathan or Pharos correctly, Tilda ignored his existence. For the time being, she’d stick with her fifteen.
She sent an e-mail asking each of the wannabes how he or she had come to be published by Regal, and what his or her meetings with Fitzwilliam had been like. Since she already had Fitzwilliam’s version, she thought that would help her eliminate a few. She carefully avoided any mention of the other claimants.
While waiting for replies, she turned her attention to the actual comic books. It had been a long time since she’d read Pharos, and it was even better than she’d remembered. The comics of that era had been a bit heavier on exposition than current readers preferred, and in that respect, Pharos had been ahead of its time. The art held up well, too. Being in black and white gave the drawings a sense of drama and dignity.
The story was not overly complex. Dylan O’Taine was the keeper of the lighthouse Pharos, which was a mystic citadel that protected the walking world from the powers of the sea, and sometimes vice versa. The main villains were the Asrai, who were translucent creatures Leviathan hinted might be the ghosts of drowned sailors, and their femme fatale leader Ceto, who used illusions to conceal her ugly form and nature.
O’Taine also fought the Blue Men of the Minch, who were blue-skinned mermen who gathered treasure by using a magic wand to conjure whirlpools to crash ships. Their Chieftain had a code of honor, and would let ships go free if the captains could best him in a battle of wits.
When O’Taine wins such a battle by calling forth a storm of his own to overcome the whirlpool, the mermaid Melusine is washed up onto the shore near Pharos in the wake of that storm. They quickly realize they are soul mates, but since she’s the daughter of the Chieftain, of course their love is doomed. But instead of moping about it the way comic book heroes often did—Tilda remembered getting really tired of the Silver Surfer whining about his lost love—they kept their romance going as best they could. It was surprisingly adult.
The Jengu seemed to be enemies at first, but were actually underwater shamans who taught O’Taine some of their magic. The Fosse Grim was a kind of aquatic pied piper, not wholly good or evil, and Flotsam and Jetsam were a pair of friendly seals who acted as pets for the lonely lighthouse keeper.
Tilda was enjoying the stories so much that she was disappointed to reach the last page of the final issue, which made her annoyed with Fitzwilliam for not continuing to publish the book, even if he wasn’t making money.
She’d been too anxious about her forthcoming conversation with Joni to eat much breakfast that morning, so she took a break to take advantage of the sliced ham and cheese that had been left for her and made a couple of generous sandwiches.
Once they were gone and the crumbs wiped up, she went back to the comics and made notes of things that she might ask the Leviathan Legion about. Something about the name Pharos rang a bell, and she hit Google to see if Leviathan had pulled that name from somewhere specific.
As it turned out, he had indeed—Pharos had been an ancient lighthouse in Egypt. That led to further investigation, and the realization that most of the characters and races in Pharos were borrowed from mythology, including Dylan O’Taine himself, who was a Welsh sea god. She jotted down notes about the origins of names and such, planning to use the info to eliminate candidates. Admittedly any of them could find this information the same way she had, but only if they thought to look. She was hoping some of them were boneheads. That would make her life a lot easier.
Tilda checked her e-mail, and found three replies: one Leviathan wannabe claimed to have met Fitzwilliam at Comic-Con while the other two described the many phone calls they’d had with him. Those last two were out immediately—Fitzwilliam had said he only dealt with Leviathan by mail. A quick phone call to Fitzwilliam established that he’d never been to Comic-Con, so that one was out, too.
That took the list down to twelve until another reasonable-sounding note arrived, bringing it back to thirteen. Still, she was making progress, and just in time for her to take a trip down to the beach where they were going to begin filming for Pharos the movie.
Chapter 15
It bears repeating: by the first day of the movie, the fate of the movie is sealed. The point, once again, is that if you have prepared the script right, if you have cast it right, both actors and crew, you have a shot. If you have made a grievous error in either script or casting, you are dead in the water.
—WILLIAM GOLDMAN, WHICH LIE DID I TELL?:
MORE ADVENTURES IN THE SCREEN TRADE
ACCORDING to Tilda’s info packet, the film crew was set up at a private beach half a mile or so down the coast. When she arrived, one of the security guys she’d met at dinner the night before waved her toward a mostly filled gravel lot across the street from the beach, where another guy helped her find a space big enough to squeeze her car into. Even though the schedule said it was to be a sunset shoot, clearly the gang was mostly already there.
By the time Tilda crossed the street, Nick was waiting to help her over a bright yellow rope marking the restricted area.
“I don
’t want to be a pain,” he said, “but you said you’d never been on a film shoot before, and I thought you could use a few pointers.”
“Point away.”
“One, do not approach Joni. Off set, she is as nice as she can be. Once she’s on-site, she is hyperfocused, and interruptions make her extremely irate.”
“Fair enough.” Tilda had only a vague idea of how much money was being spent for every moment of location time, but she knew it was a ridiculous amount. The last thing she wanted to do was cause delays.
“Two, turn off your phone and keep it off. Don’t even leave it on vibrate mode.”
“But—”
“I know, I know. Apparently both Joni and Laryea have had tricky shots ruined by phones going off, and Joni nearly went insane when a phone was left in a drawer and kept vibrating at random intervals. So if you have to make a call, go back over the rope—keep it off while you’re on this side of the rope.”
Tilda obediently pulled her cell phone from her pocket and powered off.
“Three,” Nick went on, “do not get in front of the camera, or anywhere the camera might be moving toward. And do not get into the sight line of any actor. Which in this case is Laryea, since he’s the only one on-site.”
“Got it. What else?”
He pointed. “The craft table is over there—you’re welcome to nosh unless it’s a covered tray with somebody’s name on it.” He pointed again. “The facilities are over there, but unless you’re desperate, I’d advise you to hold it. I think they cheaped out on them.”
“Thanks for the warning. Anything else?”
“I don’t think so, but if you need help, you can ask any of us security guys.” Tolomeo’s guys were all wearing royal blue polo shirts. “Or you can ask one of the production assistants, if you know which ones are PAs.”
“That’s easy,” Tilda said. “PAs are the ones with the darkest bags under their eyes, the thickest clipboards, and the biggest coffee cups.”
“Then you’re ready to dive in. I’d offer to serve as escort, but my guys have caught sight of that damned stalker trying to sneak past the barricades twice today.”
“The bathroom photo bug?”
He nodded grimly. “I’m going to find that guy, and when I do, I’m going to lift him by his carrottopped head and drop him off the Sagamore Bridge.”
“Not taking it personally, are you?”
“Then I will fish him out and head for the Bourne Bridge and throw him into the canal from there.”
“I wouldn’t dream of standing in your way. Good luck!”
“Thank you. Enjoy your little slice of Hollywood.” He waved her into the thick of it with a flourish that reminded her of Willy Wonka welcoming kids to his chocolate factory. Not a bad comparison, Tilda decided, since movie sets were also supposed to be places where dreams came true. But when she stopped to pull out a pad to write down that profound bit of analysis for her article, two guys carrying a crate of what looked like parts from a disassembled robot nearly ran her down. Nick hadn’t warned her to keep moving, but Tilda was pretty sure that he should have.
Tilda knew that most of Pharos was going to be shot on a soundstage in Los Angeles. The Cape Cod shoot was mostly for establishing shots and background footage which would be merged into the rest of the film with CGI and other editing tricks. Therefore she’d assumed the actual shoot would be fairly quiet, small, and controlled. By the fifth time she’d ducked out of the way of heavily laden people, she’d decided that if this was quiet, small, and controlled, she would never survive a shoot that was noisy, loud, and chaotic.
The location where they were filming was a nice bit of beach in a tiny inlet with a sea view devoid of buildings—presumably an important point. The sand was liberally dotted with stones, as were most New England beaches, and as Tilda watched, techs of some sort were actually sweeping the beach to get rid of debris and give it that natural touch. Tilda didn’t need a warning from Nick to know that it would be a serious mistake for her to walk on that sand.
All of the equipment was to one side, where it wouldn’t be seen by any of the cameras. It was on that side that Tilda found a spot where it seemed relatively safe to settle down—a graffiti-spattered wooden bench at the end of the path between the road and the beach, where she could still see most of the action.
After an hour or so of watching, she admitted to herself that it really was as boring as she’d always been told, and considerably more confusing. At any given moment, three quarters of the people she saw were standing around and drinking coffee and eating and none of the work the other quarter was doing seemed particularly germane to filming.
Then suddenly the mood shifted dramatically. The food disappeared, the noise abated, and even posture improved. A moment later, Tilda saw the reason. Joni and Laryea had arrived, and they strode down the path right past her, with Dom, Foster, and a trio of PAs close at their heels.
Tilda sat up straighter herself, sure something was about to happen. Then the director and the star—and of course their entourage—disappeared into a trailer on the beach. There was still a lot of activity, and it somehow seemed more purposeful, but since Tilda couldn’t tell what the purpose was, it wasn’t exactly invigorating.
She was itching to check her e-mail, and was about to retreat from the restricted area when Edwina strolled by. “How’s it going?” the woman asked Tilda.
“Good,” Tilda said. “This is fascinating to watch, and I’m getting lots of background information.”
Edwina looked at the pad on Tilda’s lap, which was blank other than a doodled mermaid. “I can see that. Mind if I join you?”
“Please do. I need somebody to wake me up in case I doze off.”
“I’ll wake you if you wake me.”
The producer looked almost relaxed, which Tilda hadn’t expected. “I’m surprised you’re not in the middle of the frenzy,” she said.
“My frenzy comes before, when we’re trying to get the funding, set the budget, and cast the picture. Or after, when I have to figure out where we’re bleeding money. I’m mostly superfluous at an actual shoot—this is Joni’s department. I just like to show up and watch other people going crazy.”
“There is something soothing about being the only person not working,” Tilda agreed.
They watched for a while, and Tilda soon realized the advantage of hanging with a producer. When a PA started to zip by, Edwina stopped her with a single lifted finger. “Hold on a minute. Tilda, would you care for something to drink?”
“A Coke would be great.”
“Katrina, could you bring us two Cokes? And if they’ve got any fresh nachos, some of those, too.”
The PA nodded and, in less time than it would have taken Tilda to find the craft services table, was back with a tray neatly arranged with ice-filled glasses, cans of Coke, and two heaping plates of nachos. The PA showed every willingness to stand and act as a table while they ate at their leisure, but Tilda and Edwina scooted to the sides of the bench so they could put the tray down between them.
Edwina said, “Thank you, Katrina!” and before Tilda could add her appreciation, the PA was gone.
“Wow,” Tilda said.
“Yeah, I live for that,” Edwina said with a mischievous grin. “And I’m not just being a putz. I’ve found that if I eat from the craft table myself, they don’t dare serve substandard food. As much as we pay the caterers, they owe us the good stuff.”
“Very dedicated of you,” Tilda said, and after a few bites, added, “I think you’re getting your money’s worth this time. Great nachos.”
They were about halfway through their plates when Edwina said, “I hear you had a setback in your Leviathan hunt.”
“You might say that,” Tilda said, “but it wouldn’t have been much fun if I’d found him right away anyway.”
Edwina looked skeptical, but didn’t argue the point.
She knew she was taking a chance, but what with the nacho-induced camaraderie, Tilda cou
ldn’t resist asking, “Can I ask you a question? Why are you against my looking for Leviathan?”
When the producer took her time before answering, Tilda had to wonder if Edwina was stalling. She finally said, “I don’t like borrowing trouble. We own the rights and we’re doing right by the material. That should be enough. The last thing we need is the creator showing up and making a fuss because we switched a character’s name to something easier to pronounce or changed the time of year for a battle to make sure we don’t give Laryea pneumonia. Not to mention bad press if he starts complaining that he’s not getting any money out of the deal. You remember how the guys who created Superman got all the sympathy press when the first movie came out?”
“I tend to think Siegel and Schuster deserved some of the money.” As a writer herself, Tilda was more than a little concerned with creators’ rights.
“They had a contract—they gave up the rights. Same as Leviathan. And speaking off the record now, our budget is tight enough that we can’t afford any kind of court battle if Leviathan were to try to sue.”
“Do you think that’s a possibility?”
She shrugged. “Who knows? It’s like I said before, I don’t want to borrow trouble.”
Tilda thought about it, but had to say, “The thing is, I promised Joni I’d find the guy.”
“I know you did, but nobody is going to hold it against you if you try your best and don’t succeed. We won’t chase you off the set or out of that cottage, and you’ll still get your pass to Comic-Con. So don’t knock yourself out if you hit a dead end.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Well, I need to go make a few calls,” Edwina said, scooping up cheese and chili onto a final tortilla chip. “Enjoy the show!”
Tilda couldn’t help speculating as Edwina headed back toward the road. If she didn’t know better, she’d think that maybe there was something fishy about the Pharos deal, and she didn’t mean Dylan O’Taine’s girlfriend the mermaid. The fact that Edwina was sending a different message than Joni was more than a little interesting, too.
Blast from the Past Page 7