Close up, p.26
Close-Up, page 26
‘How much?’
‘Ah well, that has yet to be discussed. They want to soften you up by having you hear Hanratty’s plans for the movie.’
‘OK.’
‘And Kagan says he’d like me along so we can go through the finance side of it. They seem pretty straight.’
‘Well, well!’ said Stone. ‘They really must have got to you.’
‘Lunch today, then?’
‘Would they come out here to Twin Beeches?’
‘They would rendezvous in orbit.’
‘Twelve-thirty for one, then. I’ll tell cook.’ Already he felt a little better. Perhaps the best way to get out of his present mood was to know that someone he admired and respected needed him in a movie: a good movie.
‘And a word of warning, Marshall. I was with that fellow Anson last evening. I think he knows about the Rainbow business.’
‘But Leo arranged that Edgar would say –’
‘Edgar said it. And then you said it too. These sort of guys can be almost psychic.’
‘Leo wouldn’t…’
‘I’m sure it’s nothing to do with Leo.’
‘Does Mary know?’
‘I’m sure she doesn’t.’
‘The hell with it. What does it all matter? These days the public know that these things happen. For Bergman…’
‘You don’t want it all dug out again, Marshall. And there is Suzy to consider, too.’
‘Let’s see what happens.’
‘Exactly,’ said Weinberger. ‘There’s nothing to worry about, but don’t let him pump you.’
‘Screw Cannes and Venice, and even the Academy. Let’s just try to make a movie the way we think it should be done.’ Bookbinder smiled. He was a mandarin, thought Stone, or at least he looked like one. His golden skin fitted tightly over his globular head to make his eyes into slits and stretch his mouth into a derisive smile. He wasn’t bald, but even as a young man his hair had been wispy enough to be unnoticeable from across the room. And like a toy mandarin he nodded gently to show that he was listening, pausing only long enough to inhale from the expensive Havana cigar which he brandished like some symbol of office. Nor were his hands the pudgy instruments that so many Hollywood producers used to carve dreams from tobacco smoke. Bookbinder’s hands were mandarin’s: slim and bony. His fingernails were lighter than the skin and the gold identity bracelet, which still bore his Army number and blood group, was almost the same colour.
Bookbinder carefully took off the cotton cord jacket that had once been the native costume of Madison Avenue. He placed it over the back of a chair, but a servant took it away immediately and brushed it perfunctorily before hanging it up. ‘I wanted to bring the writer – a wonderful guy – but he couldn’t make it.’
‘Great writing,’ said Hanratty. ‘If I could write like that…’
That’s how these sort of meetings always start, thought Stone. Someone always says great writing. Certain names – Greene, Chandler, Dostoevski – will be incanted, as if their literary magic could be transmuted into cinema. He looked at the famous Bert Hanratty. He was a tall Irishman.
From Scott Fitzgerald to Joe Kennedy, such Irishmen had brought blarney and enchantment to stir into the schmaltz and the chutzpa that Hollywood already had in abundance.
Hanratty looked like a gardener or a roadmender, and this was endorsed by a shabby suit and unpolished brown shoes. He was a heavy muscular man and yet, because of his height, slim. His hair was short and inexpertly trimmed, with tufts at the crown and patches of neck-hair that his barber had missed. His face was bony and skull-like, the high cheekbones, stubborn chin and button nose ruddy and chafed. There are many such physiques, not only in Ireland but in France and Belgium too. Peasants, with soil under their nails and straw in their hair: tough men, taciturn and single-minded.
At a loss for words, Hanratty smiled. A dentist in Spain had persuaded him to have his ravaged teeth repaired with gold, and it glinted in the light from the window. ‘Great writing,’ he said.
Some directors devoted a great deal of time and energy to getting publicity, and since directors had more to say to the unit publicist than the stars did, they often got a big proportion of it. Bert Hanratty was not such a director. He’d made twenty-five films, not counting a few travel shorts and some Crown Film Unit instructional films during the war. Some of them were outstanding, but not until his last film – Naked Summer, an all-location film, devoid of stars but lavish in production and made for a penny-pinching two million and some dollars – did he find fame. For it looked as if it might gross sixty. Some said it was going to gross eighty and thus out-gross Love Story or The Sound of Music, the champion moneymakers of all time.
‘Before Bert talks about the picture,’ said Weinberger, ‘how would you like to fill me in on Continuum?’
‘That’s my boy.’ Stone laughed, but he was embarrassed that Weinberger had stated his pecuniary interest so early and so bluntly.
‘He’s right,’ said Bookbinder. He watched Stone with more care than he’d admit to. Particularly he watched what he drank. He was an unpredictable bastard. There had been that film in Italy – The Storm Clouds in the autumn of 1952 – during which Stone had gone off on a desperate and terrible drinking spree. All alone and halfway through the production he’d got permission for a weekend by the sea, and been found three weeks later in a hospital in Rome. It was the sort of thing he was liable to do without motive or warning. Bookbinder would have to be sure of Stone’s sobriety before he actually signed. ‘None of us are in this for our health.’ Bookbinder removed his Ben Franklin spectacles and polished the half-lenses, breathing upon them and holding them up to the light until he was sure they were spotless.
‘Except Bert,’ said Stone. He wanted to get a smile from the Irishman.
‘Especially not Bert,’ said Bookbinder. ‘He turned down eight per cent of Naked Summer to get an extra three thousand up front.’
‘Jesus,’ said Stone.
‘Let’s see,’ said Weinberger, for whom such figures were an irresistible challenge. ‘You made it for two point one, right?’ Hanratty nodded. Weinberger continued. ‘They’ll charge you two point five of that – say break even at five point two – if it does sixty million – which according to Variety looks likely – then you’d have got eight per cent of fifty-four plus… Well, even after they had screwed you and rewritten the accounts a couple of times you still might have got hold of four million dollars.’
‘I took twenty-five thousand straight.’
There was a solemn silence until Bookbinder said, ‘Never mind, Bert. This will be the one.’ Then Bookbinder blew his nose on a gigantic linen handkerchief and Jasper brought a tray of drinks. It took a few minutes to sort the Negronis from the Americanos, and then they were back to business again. ‘Four million is a lot of scratch,’ said Bookbinder, ‘but the industry is changing and the people who guess what’s going to happen in the next few years are going to make four million sound like pin money.’
‘For instance?’ said Stone.
‘Cassettes, for instance. Only one person in four goes to a movie theatre more often than once a year. But a cassette that plugs right into your TV set. Can you imagine what that could bring in royalties.’
‘Blue movies,’ said Stone. ‘Imagine what kind of business blue movies at home would do.’
Bookbinder said, ‘Sure, it will start with porn. So Continuum have bought the rights on this new Swedish skin-flick Attis and his Lover. But then it will move on: education films, classics and good family entertainment too. And they aren’t totally rejecting movie houses, they’ve just bought seven more so that they have twenty-one cinemas across the US.’
‘That’s a lot of cinemas,’ said Stone.
‘This is a solid company,’ said Bookbinder. ‘People say they are shaky but they have a hell of a lot of collateral.’
‘And the cassettes?’ asked Weinberger.
‘Mail order; like a book club.’
‘Can’t miss,’ said Stone.
‘Three young guys from the Harvard Graduate School of Business. This is history repeating itself. This is Mary Pickford and Doug Fairbanks putting the United Artists empire together.’ Bookbinder sipped his drink and looked at Weinberger, inviting him to reply.
Weinberger said, ‘It’s been said so many times before… and there are rumours that Continuum are heading into trouble.’
‘They are,’ said Bookbinder. ‘They’ll need eight million before October, to pay back what they owe.’
‘And you’re not worried?’
‘They’ve expanded too fast. But look what they have: twenty-one cinemas – big-city real estate, right? They have a team of very bright guys planning their cassette project…’
‘Employees are no collateral,’ said Weinberger.
‘But they have the Anglo-American rights on three films. The two German films are so-so, but the Swedish one – Attis and his Lover – is the rawest piece of porn I’ve ever seen. It’s done incredible business in Germany and Scandinavia. Those US rights could be worth ten million. That’s what I call collateral!’
‘But if they were pressed?’
‘So the cinemas pass to the debtor. A man who gets a company like Continuum isn’t going to close it down, is he.’
Weinberger made a sucking noise to indicate doubt.
‘Look, they’ll have that eight by October and another five for expansion.’
‘How will they get it?’
‘The stock market.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘I’ve been advising them about the expansion. They have the site and the drawings for a factory to make the cassettes. But I’m sworn to secrecy, so not a word.’
Stone said, ‘They’re depressing the price of their own stock to buy it?’
‘A risky business,’ said Weinberger disapprovingly, but he couldn’t fault the cunning of it.
‘I’ve got a chunk of their stock and I’d advise you both to think about doing the same.’
‘Why not let it sink even lower?’ said Stone.
‘The way I figure it, Marshall, if I’ve been able to work it out, then any time at all the price will start climbing.’
‘You’re right.’
‘Same with the movie. They have given me a very tough deal because these guys are no philanthropists, believe me, but I’m quite happy to take a piece of the action on this one rather than have too much up front.’
‘You can’t have too much up front,’ said Weinberger drily.
‘That’s agent talk. That’s what Bert’s agent told him on Naked Summer.’
‘Touché,’ said Weinberger.
‘It’s true,’ said Bookbinder. He laughed.
‘We’ll work something out,’ said Weinberger. ‘You show me your Continuum deal on paper, and we’ll work it out.’
‘That’s what I call good sense. Bert, tell them about the movie.’
‘All location,’ said Hanratty. ‘Great crew, people I’ve had with me ten years.’
‘Who’s doing the wardrobe?’ asked Stone.
‘Billy Speed, the uniforms, but you’d wear your own suits for most scenes: dark suits.’
‘Rent them to you,’ offered Weinberger.
‘Done,’ said Bookbinder. They laughed.
‘So, Billy on the wardrobe, Swanny on the sets, with Jimmy the Bird as set dresser.’
‘I know them all, top notchers,’ said Stone.
‘You can get almost anyone at present,’ said Hanratty. ‘A lot of the boys haven’t worked for months.’
‘It’s grim,’ said Stone. He shivered. Jasper came in to say that lunch was ready.
The table was set in the small dining-room. It opened on to the rose garden, and was one of Stone’s favourite places in the house, especially on a fine summer’s day like this one. The meal was simple by Twin Beeches standards: cold spinach soup, lamb chops and salad, cheese, raspberries and cream.
Stone poured the chilled rosé wine into Waterford glasses. Weinberger watched Stone closely. He was acting well before this audience but Weinberger knew that all was not right with him.
‘Tell Marshall about your lighting, Bert,’ prompted Bookbinder.
Hanratty looked to Stone. He had no doubts about what Stone’s name would mean to the film. Quite apart from any box-office advantage, Stone’s participation would persuade the Continuum board to let him have the money for the battle scenes in Italy. Without Stone, he’d be trying to improvise his war within commuting distance of London, so that he didn’t have to put his crew into hotels. ‘You saw Naked Summer?’
‘Of course. I saw it twice. I thought, I’ve just got to go back again and see if it’s really this good.’
‘All bounce-light and aluminized umbrella lights like Wexler used on Medium Cool. I’ll punch it up here and there, but only with 750 watts, maybe less. Beautiful light, Marshall! It will make you look really good. It’s glamour lighting: no hard shadows on the eyes or the nose and so no fillers to get rid of them. That means no brutes or gennys to make a noise or make the recording difficult. So we’ll have little or no dubbing.’
Bookbinder said, ‘It will make it an actor’s film, Marshall: your film.’
‘We’ll still have marks?’ Stone asked.
Hanratty said, ‘Not for the lights, just for the focus puller. And no worries about casting shadows as you move.’
‘Kagan said you’ll be using two cameras. I don’t know if I like that. I like to play to a camera. I like to know which lens is on. After all, a twitch of an eyelid on the two hundred needs a wave of the arm on the wide angle.’
Bookbinder looked anxiously towards Hanratty, who said, ‘It will give you a freedom you’ve never known, Marshall. You will think you’ve been reborn. Trust me.’
‘I’ll take a lot of convincing, Bert.’
Bookbinder said, ‘He did 520 camera set-ups on Naked Summer: thirteen a day.’
Hanratty said, ‘Easy now, Kagan, actors get worried at the idea of working that fast.’
‘Thirteen set-ups a day,’ said Stone. ‘I can’t remember ever doing more than eight. Preston can only get two or three done on some days. He’s going to fifteen takes on some of them.’
‘And you improve your performance on each take?’ asked Hanratty.
‘No,’ said Stone. ‘After about the sixth time I start to lose it.’
‘Because you hold back at the beginning.’
‘I’m afraid I do, he never gets it the first shot. It’s Preston’s first feature,’ said Stone. It would be good to work with real professionals again. That Preston boy worried him. ‘He spends more time with the crew than with the actors. Sometimes I think he’s directing them instead of me.’
‘Kids always surround themselves with more equipment than they can control. And they like to go to a dozen takes. It makes them feel more like a film director. I did the same on my first film.’
‘But thirteen set-ups a day,’ said Stone. ‘That’s too many for me, Bert.’
‘No, it’s not,’ said Hanratty. He was gentle but firm. He knew that the relationship between director and actor was already forming. It was better to lose Stone altogether than get off on the wrong foot. ‘I will want you to put everything into the first take! Everything, Marshall! We’ll try and do the whole film with just one take at each set-up.’
‘It’s difficult to deliver a line cold, Bert. I doubt if I could get it right the first time.’
‘Not cold, Marshall. We’ll rehearse each shot very carefully until you are ready. Then I shoot.’
‘It’s worth a try.’
‘You wait till you do the pre-production walk-through with him,’ said Bookbinder. ‘He’s more meticulous than anyone I’ve ever seen on the floor.’
‘That’s the time to iron out problems,’ said Hanratty. ‘I do a set-ups plan in pre-production too.’
‘Using models of each location,’ Bookbinder added proudly.
‘You two should get married,’ said Stone.
For a moment Bookbinder was put out. ‘Bert’s the best, Marshall. I mean it: the best.’
Stone smiled.
‘You’ll see, Marshall. This will be the finest thing you’ve ever done. The scene in the attic: that’s pure Dostoevski.’
Stone thought, there we go. Now we’ll be lucky to escape Nietzsche. ‘And I’ll be rich, too.’
‘He’s a sarcastic bugger,’ Hanratty said to Bookbinder.
‘We really want you to do this film, Marshall,’ said Bookbinder.
‘How could I resist?’ said Stone. He pushed the button to tell the kitchen that they were ready for the coffee, the brandy and the cigars.
‘Could you do the fall from the roof?’ asked Hanratty. ‘I’d like to do it with one of the cameras giving me a close-up.’
‘Just schedule it at the end of the shooting,’ joked Stone.
‘Suppose we need a retake,’ said Hanratty glumly.
The others laughed but Stone scarcely noticed. ‘Let’s talk about the uniforms I’ll wear,’ he said.
When Bookbinder and Hanratty had gone, Weinberger sat down for a quiet drink with Stone. Weinberger had brought a voucher copy of Monday – the Magazine of Sport and Entertainment. There was a coloured photo of Stone on the cover. It wasn’t flattering. Stone was standing on his head in a yoga pose, so that his cheeks were puffed and his eyes narrowed with the strain of it. Inside, the same photo had been printed, face only, right way up. When only Stone’s face was visible, and it wasn’t evident that he was standing on his head, his strained face looked ridiculous. The enigmatic photo caption, ‘No round of bills or spiritual trough’, was a quote from the text of the article.
EXISTING THROUGH NATURE. ‘Showgirl’ visits Marshall Stone. Yoga. Eastern mysticism and meditation make up much of the world of Marshall Stone. If a hiker or a cyclist in the midst of rural Kent hears a Hindu call to prayer, the lilting tones of the sitar or the even more ancient vina, he may not be going crazy. ‘My mornings begin with the call to prayer,’ says Marshall Stone, with a twinkle in his eye, as he switches on his eight-hundred-pound tape-recorder. The stereo recording of strange Eastern music makes yours truly start up with surprise. ‘I began to practise yoga and meditation while filming Tigertrap,’ says the youthful Marshall Stone. ‘Now I spend two hours of each day in solitude and contemplation, live on a macrobiotic diet and read a great deal of Indian philosophy. The East has a lot to teach us about ourselves. Our lives here in the Western world can easily become a round of bills, publicity, salaries, traffic jams, arguments and unhappiness. Ancient Eastern philosophers can teach us to know ourselves and find true and lasting happiness. It’s a matter of becoming a part of the universe and existing only through nature.’
