Phillipa Bornikova: Box Office Poison

I must have made some sound because Jeff gave me a look out of the corner of his eye and said, “Go ahead—you can laugh. It’s a gobbler.”

“But will it make money?” David asked from the backseat.

“I have no doubt.”

“But you just said it was terrible,” I objected.

He looked over and smiled that ten-thousand-watt smile. “Linnet, there’s no connection between quality and the box office. You saw Transformers , right?” Jeff drove in silence for a moment. I watched the headlights and the light from neon signs play across the chiseled cheekbones and square jaw. “I’m getting a little long in the tooth for these action films. I don’t want to end up like Harrison Ford or Stallone, embarrassing myself. I’m in that awkward stage. Too old for action hero. Too young for eccentric geezer roles. That’s why I’m moving more into producing and directing.”

“Must be hard when everything revolves around how you look,” I said.

“Yeah, it’s a tough business and every rejection is very personal.” He added in an nasal singsong. “You’re too short. Too tall. Too ethnic-looking. Your tits are too small, too big. Your voice is too high. Too low. Not pretty enough. Not young enough. All stuff you can’t change. Really personal and really hurtful. I got lucky, became famous. Now I get asked. I don’t audition anymore. But I ache for the kids. I see what it does to them. I try to be kind and encouraging, but now that I’m making movies I’m the one making those kind of judgments.”

“So why do it?” David again.

Jeff glanced back and shot him a smile. “If I could answer that question I’d have saved myself a fortune in couch time, and I’d be making a fortune counseling other actors. I don’t know.… Why do I act? I’m insecure? I crave attention? Truth is, I love making movies from both sides of the camera. On the first day of principal photography, when you hear an actor deliver that first line of dialog … well, it’s a total high.” As if embarrassed by his own enthusiasm he added in a blasé tone, “And the pay ain’t bad either.”

He took us into a turning bay and made a U-turn. A red umbrella marked a valet parking service in front of a two-story white building with lots of windows, and the word KETCHUP in bright red letters on the wall. The rain was still pissing down, but there was a gaggle of men in raincoats or windbreakers trying to protect their cameras. Not ordinary cameras either. These had lenses that looked like you could sight in on Saturn, they were so long and the apertures were so wide.

David had spotted them too, and he had the vampire’s usual reaction to most things human. “Idiots,” he muttered as we pulled to a stop.

A couple of men in short red jackets rushed forward to open the car doors for us. One of them, an elderly man with a weather-seamed face and iron gray hair, offered his hand to assist me out of the car. His palm was rough and callused, his thin black pants and jacket were soaked through, and rain ran down his face.

Then I had other things to worry about because the minute my leg emerged from the car the frantic whir and click of digital cameras began. I had a flashback to that awful picture of me in the New York Post last year, and I wished my skirt was longer. The maître d’ came rushing out the front door of the restaurant armed with a giant golf umbrella; behind him was a hostess with another large umbrella. David, Jeff, and I were now protected from the elements. Jeff took my arm, pulled me close to his side, and paused to smile and wave at the throng of photographers.

“Who’s the babe?” somebody yelled from the crowd. Jeff just gave an enigmatic smile. I opened my mouth to call “Lawyer, I’m a lawyer,” but then we were hustled into the interior of Ketchup.

“Well, that was unbelievably humiliating,” David said.

“Bread and circuses, my friend, bread and circuses. You’ve got to give the public what it wants.” Then he added in a lower tone, “Or they’ll eat you alive.”

“Yeah, but does that include staking me in front of them like a gazelle at a tiger hunt?” I asked. Jeff realized I was annoyed and looked contrite.

“I’m sorry,” he said with absolute sincerity, and I liked him again.

It didn’t seem to mollify David, however. He said rather acidly, “You do that very well. Do you rehearse it in front of a mirror?”

Which had me then wondering if it really had been sincere or if I had just fallen victim to a masterful performance?

We were turned over to a beautiful young hostess, who took us up in the elevator to the second floor and the main body of the restaurant. Her demeanor was obsequious and flirtatious as she led us to our table, the only open table in the place. It was definitely a happening place. Some of the other customers pointedly pretended a famous movie star was not walking past, but others stared and whispered. The waitstaff was mostly female, all very pretty and dressed in strappy mini bandage dresses that barely covered their rear ends. I suddenly felt like a dowdy librarian in my dress and jacket.

The decor was very sleek, very modern, and very red. The lights looked like suspended red balloons; then I thought about the name and realized they were meant to represent tomatoes. The upholstery on the chairs and booths was white leather, and my heels clicked on the hard shiny white floor. Large pieces of modern art adorned the walls; many were pictures of ketchup bottles.

One little girl ran up with a napkin clutched in her hand.

“Please, may I have an autograph?”

Montolbano knelt in front of her. “Of course, honey, what’s your name?

“Samantha.”

Pulling a pen out of his pocket he wrote, “For Samantha, reach for the stars, best, Jeffery Montolbano.” The little girl looked stunned, and her father was snapping pictures with his phone. Montolbano didn’t hurry, he posed for quite some time with the child. In that moment he became Jeff for me.

Just before her father led her away Jeff asked, “Would you like a Space Command pin?”

The child was speechless with joy. She could only nod vigorously. Jeff pulled an enamel pin from his pocket and pressed it into her plump little hand.

We were led to a plush booth that could easily have accommodated another three people. I leaned back to rest and realized my feet were kicking in the air as if I were a five-year-old. On the table in place of flowers or a candle was a juicy red tomato in a glass box. I wondered how many tomatoes got wasted every night, maybe even twice a day if you added in lunch. Or did they get served in the next meal’s salad? I tried to make a quick count of the number of tables but gave up.

The menu was eccentric. Lots of things with ketchup and very all-American. Jeff went with the Barking Dogs appetizer, which was two mini Kobe beef hotdogs, chili, melted cheddar, and homemade ketchup. The idea of making hotdogs out of Kobe beef sort of hurt my head. I went with the Californication appetizer which was Dungeness crab cakes with chili lime aioli. In an effort to keep down the calories I went with a cup of the lobster bisque for my main course, while Jeff ordered this giant twelve-ounce Kobe burger with bacon and blue cheese. He also added the Threesome appetizer, which was garlic parmesan, sweet potato, and Cajun fries with all five varieties of the restaurant’s homemade ketchup. I wished I’d gone with just a salad for dinner because I was never going to be able to resist.

While we were ordering the waiter kept up a nonstop conversation that consisted of not very funny quips and schmoozing compliments. Jeff kept his easy smile and quipped back. It was a repeat of Toby and the golf cart. David stared at the young man with the frozen expression of an offended vampire. The kid didn’t notice because he was totally focused on Jeff, which made sense, and on me—which made no sense.