Aurélien filmed the walk to the café first. It took four days, starting late afternoon, always approaching the café at dusk. He filmed Nathalie’s levée in one sustained twelve-hour burst. Delphine woke, made up, sang and dressed eight times that day in a series of long takes, cuts only coming when the film ran out. The song changed: Delphine sang Bob Dylan’s “She Belongs to Me” with the pronoun changed to “He.” This was Delphine’s idea, and a good one Aurélien thought, the only problem was she kept forgetting. “He’s an artist, she don’t look back,” Delphine sang in her flat breathy voice as she combed her hair, “He never stumbles, she’s got no place to fall.”
Every evening they would go to the pizzeria and eat. Aurélien insisted that Delphine get drunk, not knee-walking drunk, but as far as woozy inebriation. Of course the waiters came to know them and conversation ensued. “What you guys doin’ here anyway? Making a movie? Great. Another beer for the lady? No problemo.”
After a week’s regular visiting Aurélien asked the owner, a small nervy man called George Malinverno, if they could film at the pizzeria, outside on the “terrace,” for one night only. They agreed on a remuneration of two hundred dollars.
MICHAEL SCOTT GEHN. Have you ever heard of the Topeka Film Festival? That’s Topeka, Kansas? No? Neither have I. So you can understand that I was kind of pissed when my editor assigned me to cover it. It ran a week, the theme was “Kansas in the Western, 1970–1980.” It’s not my subject, my last book was on Murnau, for Christ’s sake, but let’s not get embroiled in office politics. The point is I’m on my way to the airport and I realize I’ve left my razor and shaving foam behind. I pull into this mini-mall where there’s a pharmacy. I’m coming out of the shop and I see there’s a film crew setting up a shot of the pizzeria. Normally I see a film crew and chronic catatonia sets in. But there’s something about this one: the guy holding the boom mike looks like he’s stoned — even I can see that it keeps dropping into the shot. So I wander over. The camera is set up behind these plants, kind of poking through a gap, like it’s hidden or something. And there’s this black guy behind the camera with this great hair with beads on it. I see he’s D.P. and clapper boy and director. He calls out into the darkness and this sensational-looking girl walks into the pizzeria terrace thing. She sits down and orders a beer and they just keep filming. After about two minutes the soundman drops the boom and they have to start over. I hear them talking — French. I couldn’t believe it. I had this guy figured for some wannabe homeboy director out of South Central LA. But they’re talking French to each other. When was the last time a French crew shot a movie in this town? I introduced myself and that’s when he told me about Nathalie X and the Prix d’Or. I bought them all some drinks and he told me his story and gave me a videocassette of the movie. Fuck Topeka, I thought, I knew this was too good to miss. French underground movies shooting next door to LAX. Are you kidding me? They were all staying in some fleabag motel under the flight path, for God’s sake. I called my editor and threatened to take the feature to American Film. He reassigned me.
The night’s shooting at the pizzeria did not go well. Bertrand proved incapable of holding the boom aloft for more than two minutes and this was one sequence where Aurélien knew he needed sound. He spent half an hour taping a mike under Delphine’s table and snaking the wires around behind the potted plants. Then this man who said he was a film critic turned up and offered to buy them a drink. When Aurélien was talking to him, Delphine drank three margaritas and a negroni. When they tried to restart, her reflexes had slowed to such an extent that when she remembered she had to throw the glass of beer, the waiter had turned away and she missed completely. Aurélien wrapped it up for the night. Holbish wandered off and Aurélien drove Delphine back to the hotel. She was sick in the parking lot and started to cry and that’s when Aurélien thought about the gun.
KAISER PREVOST. I rarely read film/e. It’s way too pretentious. Ditto that creep Michael Scott Gehn. Any guy with three names and I get irrationally angry. What’s wrong with plain old Michael Gehn? Are there so many Michael Gehns out there that he has to distinguish himself? “Oh, you mean Michael Scott Gehn, I got you now.” I’d like a Teacher’s, straight up, with three ice cubes. Three. Thank you. Anyway, for some reason I bought it that week — it was the issue with that great shot of Jessica, no, Lanier on the cover — and I read the piece about this French director Aurélien No and this remake Seeing Through Nathalie he was shooting in town. Gehn — sorry, Michael Scott Gehn — is going on like this guy is sitting there holding God’s hand and I read about the Prix d’Or and this Nathalie X film and I think, hmmm, has Aurélien got representation? This is Haig. This is not Teacher’s.
MICHAEL SCOTT GEHN. I knew, I just knew when this young guy Kaiser Prevost calls me up, things would change. “Hi, Michael,” he says. “Kaiser Prevost here.” I don’t know jack shit about any Kaiser Prevost but I do know I hate it when someone uses my Christian name from the get-go — what’s wrong with Mr. Gehn? Also his tone just assumes, just oozes the assumption that I’m going to know who he is. I mean, I am a film critic of some reputation, if I may be immodest for a moment, and these young guys in the agencies … There’s a problem of perspectives, that’s what it comes down to, that’s what bedevils us. I have a theory about this town: there is no overview, nobody steps back, no one stands on the mountain looking down on the valley. Imagine an army composed entirely of officers. Let me put it another way: imagine an army where everyone thinks they’re an officer. That’s Hollywood, that’s the film business. No one wants to accept the hierarchy, no one will admit they are a foot soldier. And I’m sorry, a young agent in a boutique agency is just a G.I. Joe to me. Still, he was a persuasive fellow and he had some astute and flattering things to say about the article. I told him where Aurélien was staying.
Aurélien No met Kaiser Prevost for breakfast in the coffee shop of the Dollarwize. Prevost looked around him as if he had just emerged from some prolonged comatose sleep.
“You know, I’ve lived in this town for all my life and I don’t think I’ve ever even driven through here. And as for shooting a movie … It’s a first!”
“Well, it was right for me.”
“Oh no. I appreciate that. I think it’s fresh, original. Gehn certainly thinks a lot of you.”
“Who?”
Prevost showed him the article in film/e. Aurélien flicked through it. “He has written a lot.”
“Have you got a rough assembly of the new movie? Anything I could see?”
“No.”
“Any dailies? Maybe you call them rushes.”
“There are no dailies on this film. None of us see anything until it is finished.”
“The ultimate auteur, huh? That is impressive. More than that, it’s cool.”
Aurélien chuckled. “No, it’s a question of — what do you say? — faute de mieux.”
“I couldn’t have put it better myself. Look, Aurélien, I’d like you to meet somebody, a friend of mine at a studio. Can I fix that up? I think it would be mutually beneficial.”
“Sure. If you like.”
KAISER PREVOST. I have a theory about this town, this place, about the way it works: it operates best when people go beyond the bounds of acceptable behavior. You reach a position, a course of action suggests itself, and you say, “This makes me morally uncomfortable,” or “This will constitute a betrayal of friendship.” In any other walk of life you withdraw, you rethink. But my theory instead goes like this: make it your working maxim. When you find yourself in a position of normative doubt, then that is the sign to commit. My variation on this theory is that the really successful people go one step further. They find themselves in this moral gray area, they move right on into the black. Look at Vincent Bandine.