Ken Grimwood - Replay

The movie expertly conveyed, with sophistication and a rare cinematic depth of insight, the unbearable irony of ultimate hopes lost even as they are realized. Jeff found himself moved to tears of poignant rapture along with the rest of the audience, his years of self-imposed exile and detachment shattered in the space of two hours.

And it was new, all of it. Jeff couldn’t possibly have remained unaware of an artistic achievement this magnificent, this successful in every sense, had it appeared within either of his previous replays.

He read the list of credits with almost as much astonishment as the film itself had generated: Directed by Steven Spielberg … Written and Produced by Pamela Phillips … Creative Consultant and Special Effects Supervisor, George Lucas.

How could all this be? Spielberg’s first big movie, Jaws, hadn’t even begun shooting yet, and it would be two years before Lucas turned the industry on its ear with Star Wars. But most puzzling, most intriguing, of all—Who the hell was Pamela Phillips?

"I don’t care what it takes, Alan, except time. I want that appointment set up, and I want it next week."

"Mr. Winston, it’s just not that easy. Those people down there have their own little hierarchy, and right now this woman’s pretty much at the top of it. Half the writers and producers in Hollywood are trying to get in to—"

"I’m not looking to sell her anything, Alan. I’m a businessman, not a moviemaker."

There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Jeff knew what the broker must be thinking. It had been nine years since he’d spoken directly to his client. What kind of businessman did that make him? Jeff Winston was a hermit, a recluse who’d shown up at the brokerage house in San Francisco only once, in 1965, to deposit a lump sum of cash with them. He lived in the woods and occasionally sent a cryptic message directing that they buy large amounts of some obscure or ill-advised stock in his name. And yet, and yet …

"What’s the current value of my holdings, Alan?"

"Sir, I don’t have that information right here at my fingertips. Yours is a very complex and highly diversified account; it would take me several days to—"

"Ballpark figure."

"Well, keeping in mind the possible fluctuations of—"

"I said I want a rough estimate, off the top of your head. Now." The man gave a sigh of resignation. "Approximately sixty-five million, plus or minus five million or so. You understand, I don’t keep—"

"Yes, I understand. I just want to make sure you understand what we’re talking about here. We are talking about someone with a great deal of money to invest and someone else who’s in a business that absolutely depends on fresh input of capital. Does that make sense to you?"

"Certainly, sir. But remember that Miss Phillips’s company is awash in new capital right now from the proceeds of her film. That may not be her highest priority at the moment."

"I’m sure she’ll recognize the long-term value of my interest. If not, take a different approach; don’t you have somebody there with contacts in the film industry?"

"Well … I believe Harvey Greenspan, in our Los Angeles office, has a number of clients who are connected with the studios."

"Then have him call in some favors, use whatever connections he’s got."

There was a polite rap on the door of Jeff s hotel suite. "Bellman, sir. The man from Brooks Brothers is here for the fitting."

"I have to go, Alan," Jeff said into the phone. "You can reach me at the Fairmont when you’ve got this arranged."

"I’ll do what I can, Mr. Winston."

"Do it soon. I’d hate to have to take my account elsewhere, after all these years."

The offices of Starsea Productions, Inc. were located in a two-story white stucco building south of Pico, in a nondescript commercial area between MGM and Twentieth Century-Fox. The reception area was done in blue and white, with a billboard-sized poster for the movie behind the reception desk. An eclectic mix of abstract art and undersea photographs decorated the other walls, and on the large, Spanish-tile coffee table were displayed half a dozen books reflecting the themes of the film: Intelligent Life in the Universe, The Mind of the Dolphin, Programming and Metaprogramming in the Human Biocomputer … Jeff flipped through a collection of color plates of Jupiter from the first Pioneer mission and waited.

"Mr. Winston?" The cheery little brunette receptionist smiled professionally at him. "Miss Phillips will see you now."

He followed her down a long corridor, past half a dozen open office doors. Everyone he saw was on the telephone.

Pamela Phillips’s spacious office had the same blue-and-white color scheme as the reception area, but there were no movie memorabilia on the walls, no Pollock prints or photographs of dolphins. Here there was one visual motif, repeated in a dozen variations: mandalas, wheels, circles.

"Good morning, Mr. Winston. Would you care for some coffee or juice?"

"I’m fine, thanks."

"That’ll be all, then, Natalie. Thank you."

Jeff studied the woman he had waited a month to see. She was tall, probably five ten; wide mouth, round face, very little makeup; straight, fine blond hair in a modified Dutch-boy cut. Jeff was glad he’d outfitted himself at Brooks Brothers; Pamela Phillips was dressed for business, in a well-tailored gray suit and high-necked maroon blouse with matching low-heeled shoes. No jewelry, except for a small gold lapel pin in a design of concentric circles.

"Have a seat, Mr. Winston. I understand you wished to discuss Starsea Productions as an investment opportunity?"

Right to the point, no dillydallying or amiable warm-up chatter. Like a mid-eighties corporate woman, in 1974.

"Yes, that’s right. I find myself with some excess capital to—"

"Let me make it clear from the outset, Mr.—"

"Jeff, please."

She ignored his attempt at first-name familiarity, went right on with what she’d been saying. "My firm is privately financed and wholly self-supporting. I granted you this appointment out of courtesy to a friend, but if you want to invest in the motion-picture industry I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place. If you’d like, my attorney could draw up a list of some other production houses that might—"

"It’s Starsea that interests me, not the business in general."

"If the company ever goes public, I’ll see that your broker receives an offering. Until then…" She was rising from behind her desk, hand extended, ready to dismiss him.

"Aren’t you even curious about my interest?"

"Not particularly, Mr. Winston. Since the film opened in December, it’s generated a great deal of interest in many quarters. My own energies are devoted to other projects at this point." She extended her hand again. "So if you don’t mind, I have a busy schedule…"

The woman was making this more difficult than he’d expected; he had no choice but to plunge ahead. "What about Star Wars?" he asked. "Will your company have a hand in that?"

Her green eyes narrowed. "Rumors of upcoming films float around this town constantly, Mr. Winston. If I were you, I wouldn’t listen to everything I hear around the pool at the Bel-Air."

Might as well go all the way, Jeff thought. "And Close Encounters?" he asked. "I’m not sure whether Spielberg would even want to make that now—what do you think? It might seem like kind of a lame follow-up to Starsea."

The anger hadn’t left her eyes, but now it was joined by something else. She sat back down, stared at him cautiously. "Where did you ever hear that title?"

He returned her steady gaze, sidestepped the question. "Now, E. T.," he said conversationally, "that’s a different matter entirely. I don’t see any conflict between the two. Same thing with Raiders of the Lost Ark, of course. Completely unrelated movie. First sequel to that one was lousy, though. Maybe you can talk to him about it."