For sport, we began trashing Nick Sultan and his wife. The tiny grenades, lobbed at an easy, faraway target, provided comic relief. This went on for a while. More drinks were served, more plates of calamari consumed. Clea went to the head for a long-ass time. Just when Miriam got up to check, she returned — the wily Meerkat kept right on going, cool as could be. Thad sat there, drinking and covertly eating pills; the man had a whale’s bladder. Steak and lobster arrived. I thought we were over the rough part (something having to do with a private, fanciful theory that food would absorb the chemicals) when a man with longish hair appeared.
I braced myself, hoping it wasn’t a Jetsons fan.
“Excuse me,” he said with an accent I couldn’t identify. “You are Mr. Michelet?” Thad looked up with a cold smile, readying himself for whichever assault. “I am Mikkel Skarsgaard. I am planning to make a film from your book, The Soft Sea Horse.”
“Ah!” said Thad, welcoming. “The cinematographer! Hello! Hello!”
Miriam and Clea chirped eager greetings. Thad asked him to join us.
“But I don’t wish to disturb you!” said the respectful Dane.
“No no! We insist! We’re so bored with each other’s company!”
“Yes?” he said, diffidently. “But there are three of us, no?” He nodded toward a back booth. “It is OK?”
“It is OK!”
Mikkel gathered his friends while an animated Thad requested more chairs. I was grateful for the change in mood a new cast of characters would bring. Besides, it was a nice omen. Mikkel seemed the kind, unpretentious director type, his civil, unassuming demeanor in pleasant opposition to Nick Sultan’s tritely raw ambition.
He returned to the table accompanied by a pale, towering, beetle-browed man — and Sharon Stone. I’d never seen her in person (I wasn’t a huge fan) but had to admit she was gorgeous. She wore blue jeans and a cowl-necked sweater that coddled her American thoroughbred bones — the kind of beauty you’d find in a Town & Country spread, loading up a vintage Wagoneer with groceries in Montecito in one photo, attending a cancer gala in La Jolla with Watson and Crick in another. Mikkel said they were old friends; I assumed he’d shot one of her early films. (As if in deference to the skittishness of their reedy, frozen-smiled companion, the DP’s relationship to the latter was left unexplained.) Running into them was truly auspicious because Mikkel revealed that Sharon had been considering the “movie star” role in Sea Horse—the fictionalized woman with whom the fictionalized Jack had an affair, in fictionalized Capri. Ms. Stone was a bit of a culture vulture, sharing that she’d actually seen one of Thad’s avant garde theater productions in Vienna, which excited him enormously.
When Clea reminded her they’d met some years ago at the Venice Film Festival, Sharon said “Yes!” though it was obvious she didn’t remember. I could see that she recognized Clea from the movies but wasn’t able to place her. Then Miriam announced who her mother was and everything changed — Sharon was suddenly thrilled. She was “hugely into Roosevelt Chandler” and mentioned having developed a biopic with Milos Forman that never got off the ground. Clea said she’d heard about that and was sorry it didn’t happen. In the spirit of genetic brushes with the high and mighty, Meerkat impulsively introduced me as Son of Perry Krohn. The gracious celeb claimed to be a fan of Starwatch as well, and knew (through Mikkel, who’d been told by Klotcher) Thad was doing a guest spot; Miriam efficiently informed that Clea and I were “costarring.” The actress then turned to our host, and considerately acknowledged his father’s passing. She spoke of her own near-death experience a few years back, when she hemorrhaged into her skull — a natural cue for Michelet to talk Migraine. I asked Mikkel a question or two about Sea Horse, availing Thad and Sharon their medical bonding moment.
Sharon was flying to New York early in the morning. She stood to leave, shaking hands all around with that special brio and fanatical eye contact movie stars seem to conjure at will. She saved Thad for the end, accurately assessing his dominance in the present pecking order — another hardwired, faultless celebrity instinct.
I was a little surprised when the two men remained.
“She’s so lovely,” said Clea.
“A very special lady,” said Mikkel.
“Did she actually have a stroke?” asked Miriam.
“It was… a bleeding in the brain,” said Mikkel.
“Everybody should have a stroke and look so good,” said Clea.
“She tells the story — one day you’ll hear. They were wheeling her for the surgery and the doctor was holding a paper in his hand. ‘Look! We just got a fax from People magazine!’ Can you imagine? He was happy. She fired him, right from the table. She is like a general, a warrior! Sharon wants to make a one-woman show. Would be amazing, no? Everyone would see it. Now she doesn’t give a fuck about people and how they perceive of her. Since it has happened, she is only filled with terrific joy and happiness for all the people. Not cynical Hollywood bullshit. And ten times more amazing looking than before surgery, no? You can see! The skin glows, like an angel. Something I think really spiritual happened. Maybe you can help her write a play,” he said to Thad.
“She’s incredibly beautiful,” he answered, affectlessly.
Her sudden exit had left him strangely deflated.
To be social, Mikkel asked how I made my living. (I guess he’d zoned during Miriam’s presentation of my curriculum vitae.) I told him I was an actor. This time, it was Clea who felt compelled to add that my father was the creator of Starwatch. The DP’s eyes lit up — as if by the stitch of a master tailor I had been transformed from klutz to fashionista.
“I can’t wait to begin the script,” said Thad, trying to jump-start himself.
“Mordecai is hoping to make a deal very fast,” said Mikkel.
“Mordy’s a character, isn’t he?” said Thad.
“Did you know Christopher Nolan is to exec produce?”
“No,” said Thad, with the open smile of a naïf. “He is—”
“Memento.”
“And Insomnia,” added Clea, authoritatively enthused.
“Wow,” said Thad. “Do you live here?”
“I am in New York, mostly. But when I come, I stay at Silver Lake.”
“Are you in Denmark much?” asked Miriam.
“Two times a year, but not really for film. Lately, because my mother has been ill.”
“Sorry to hear it,” said Thad.
“Ironically, I am there quite soon to shoot the Spielberg, which locates in Copenhagen for eight weeks’ time. So it seems I cannot get away.”
“But you’ll be able to see your mom,” said Miriam.
“Yes. A big side benefit,” he said, with an empty smile meant to charm.
“We didn’t meet your friend,” said Thad, gesturing at the tall, silent one.
“This is Henrik,” said Mikkel, in that smug way people have when introducing strangers to a legendary vintage from their private reserve.
The rangy eccentric dutifully echoed his own name, inducing Clea to remark to Miriam, sotto, “He’s like something out of Hans Christian Anderson!”
Thad focused on the DP. “I haven’t written a script in a while — how do you like to work?” Then, without waiting for a reply: “I’ll probably bang something out then come see you for an ‘intensive.’ ”
“Well, it is something we would have to discuss,” said Mikkel, stiffening. “I am usually making an adaptation myself. This I try and do first.” He caught Thad’s look and awkwardly amended. “But who knows? Maybe we do both ways. We both together on parallel track: then compare notes!”