Elaine: “You’re on the right track.”
Harry: “But then it’s not Lovejoy’s story, it’s the girl’s.”
Karen: “It’s a subplot. We’re looking for motivation, what gets Lovejoy started.”
Harry: “And I’m looking at a property, as it is, Michael Weir wants to do.”
Elaine: “Oh, God. Michael.”
Chili watched Elaine look over at Karen.
Harry: “Elaine, Michael read it and flipped. Why? Because it’s about life. It’s cosmic, it’s about universal feelings and values. But he won’t touch it if it isn’t his story. You know that. Michael is bigger than the idea.”
Elaine: “Mr. Indecisive, won’t be pressured into making a commitment. I love him, but he’s worse than Hoffman and Redford put together, and his price isn’t even as high as theirs. You know what he does, don’t you? He puts his writer on it and every few months or so they show up with a different version of the story. Then he’ll bring a director, some guy who’s in awe of Michael and if the picture’s ever shot he’ll make the mistake of allowing Michael in the cutting room. You go over budget, miss release dates and post-production goes on forever while Michael fine-tunes.”
Harry: “And if you can get him, it’s worth it.”
Elaine: “Why don’t you bring me a nice sci-fi / horror idea? Something original. No pissed-off teenagers or comic-book characters. Drama, if it’s offbeat, quirky but real. I want to discover new actors, do something different.”
Chili saw her looking at him over her glasses. She blew out a stream of cigarette smoke.
Elaine: “Mr. Palmer, what do you think of Michael Weir?”
“I think he’s a great actor,” Chili said, “and I think you could get him to do it. When I was talking to him last night he said he likes the character a lot.” That got their attention. “He also likes the idea of putting a girl in it and fixing the ending, but he thinks it turns into a B movie in the second act.”
Elaine: “He means whenever you cut away from him.”
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“I think he was talking mostly,” Chili said, “about the visual fabric of the movie and the theme, what you’re doing here, so it doesn’t start to look like something else.”
Elaine: “You know Michael?”
“I know the girl lives with him, Nicki. She introduced me.” Harry was looking at him from across the coffee table, staring. Karen, on the sofa next to him, had her head turned to look right at him. “Speaking of the ending,” Chili said, “I think if Lovejoy runs the guy over with his van the audience in the theater would get up and cheer.”
Elaine: “The direct approach.”
“Say he wants to do it,” Chili said. “He starts out with every intention and then changes his mind. But it happens anyway, he runs the guy over and kills him and you don’t know for sure if he meant it or it was an accident.” He watched Elaine take her glasses off. She kept looking at him without saying anything.
Karen: “I kind of like that. Keep it ambiguous till the very end. Say he tells Peggy it was an accident and she believes him . . .”
Elaine: “But the audience still isn’t sure.”
Karen: “That’s what I was thinking. Give them something to talk about after they walk out.”
Elaine: “You mean leave the theater.”
Karen, smiling: “Right.” Still smiling: “Warren’s idea—did he tell you?”
Chili placed the name, the studio exec Karen had mentioned who sounded like an asshole.
Elaine: “We talked about it briefly.”
Karen: “Lovejoy videotapes a couple of robberies and becomes a surveillance expert?”
Elaine: “With Mel Gibson. We do sequels or sell it to a network for a series.”
Harry: “So, the next step—”
Karen: “I thought he’d be here.”
Elaine: “Warren’s no longer with us. He’s in Publicity.”
Karen: “Oh.”
Harry: “So, we know the script needs a little work, no problem. I’ll give Murray our comments.”
Elaine: “Which Murray is that?”
Harry: “Murray Saffrin, my writer.”
Elaine: “Oh . . . Well, I’ll tell you right now, I wouldn’t have a chance with Murray Saffrin. Karen could take the script upstairs bareass and not sell Murray Saffrin.”
Harry: “So I’ll get somebody else.”
Elaine: “It’s your decision. I can give you a few names, writers I know would be acceptable, like . . .”
Chili listened to the names, not surprised he’d never heard of any of them. How many people knew who wrote the movies they saw?
Harry: “So we’re talking development?”
Elaine: “Not till I have at least a treatment I know I can sell. It’s still your project, Harry. Your decision, if you want to see how far we can run with it.”
Harry: “You’re saying I pay the writer. Any of the guys you mentioned, what’s a rewrite gonna cost me?”
Elaine: “Depending on who you get, I would say anywhere from one-fifty to four, and a few points. Call their agents, see who’s available and might want to do it.”
Harry: “I love talking to agents, right next to having a case of hives. You don’t think bringing Michael Weir deserves a development deal?”
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Elaine: “Michael Weir signed, gagged and chained to a wall till you start shooting, I can take upstairs. I tell them Michael Weir likes the part . . . Yeah? What else is new? Harry, it’s your decision, think it over. Karen, I wonder if you’d stay a few minutes. If the gentlemen wouldn’t mind waiting . . .”
Chili got up with Harry. They started out.
Elaine: “Harry? What about romance among less than attractive people?”
Harry: “Marty?”
Elaine: “Beyond Marty.”
Harry: “The seven-hundred-pound broad who crushes her lovers to death when she climaxes?”
Elaine: “Call me, Harry, okay?”
They waited for Karen in Harry’s car, parked next to a sound stage as big as a hangar, up the street from the Hyman Tower Building and the front gate. Chili half expected to see extras walking around in period costumes and military uniforms, the way you saw them in movies about movies, but there didn’t seem to be anything going on. Harry, coming out of the building, kept asking about Michael Weir. And then what did he say? He really seemed interested? How was it left? Why did-n’t you call me last night? Why’d you wait till in the meeting? You trying to make points? All that. Chili said, “I think you ought to listen to what Elaine says about the guy. He doesn’t sound too reliable.” Getting in the car, the front seat, Chili said, “Last night I noticed he’s a lot shorter than I thought.”
Next, Harry started bitching about how studio people never come right out and say yes or no, they string you along. They put you in a high-risk position you can’t afford to be in and say it’s up to you.
It was hot in the car. Chili rolled down his window. “What’d she say a writer would cost?”
“Between one-fifty and four hundred thousand.”
“Jesus Christ,” Chili said, “just to fix it? That’s what I thought she meant, but I wasn’t sure. The writers do okay, huh?”
“It’s the fucking agents ruining the business. Agents and the unions. But you know what? If I had the dough I’d hire one of those guys. That’s how sure I am of this one.”
Chili, not at all sure, didn’t say anything.
“With a little luck, say if you were to run into your pal the drycleaner,” Harry said, “and could negotiate me a quick loan . . .”