Steve Erickson - Zeroville

“Let me get right to why I called you,” says Rondell, his voice dropping. He looks around. “For some time we’ve been in production on a picture called Your Pale Blue Eyes . Have you heard of it?”

“Yes,” Vikar says.

“I’m afraid,” Rondell sighs, “many people have heard of it, and have heard all the wrong things.” He glances around him again. “The company is going through an interesting period, Vikar. On the one hand, we’ve won the last two consecutive Oscars for best picture. I would love to say it’s part of a grand plan but of course you know better. Cuckoo’s Nest was kicking around ten years — and a B-picture about a boxer shot in four weeks for a million bucks, starring and written by somebody whose biggest credit was The Lords of Flatbush ? On the other hand, the moneymen in San Francisco are making changes, everything is moving west, and soon there probably won’t be any New York office — which, I grant you, if you saw the neighborhood as you were driving in, maybe isn’t such a terrible thing. There’s serious talk that the guy who’s been running the company thirty years is on his way out to start another company. None of which any reasonable movie fan cares about, I know, but that’s the back story. How’s that pizza?”

“It’s very good pizza.”

“Now we have this picture. A very New York picture, which made it seem right for us, budgeted at five million. Well, it’s going to cost ten if we’re lucky, likelier twelve-plus. Ridiculous that this picture should cost that, and if we could turn back the clock and pull the plug on the whole thing, we would, but we can’t. Two days ago, the day I called you, the director quit. Do you know who I’m talking about? Don’t say his name if you do, not here, anyway.”

“He made the movie about the Devil.”

“Right.”

“ Splendor in the Grass is better.”

Rondell appears slightly befuddled but says, “That’s probably true.”

“It’s all right,” Vikar assures him. “Sometimes I vex people.”

“Thank you. I’m glad you told me.”

“You’re welcome.”

“In a lot of ways, we’re not sorry to see him go. Certainly none of the crew is sorry to see him go. The original D.P. couldn’t work with him and quit, and none of the major talent we wanted will work with him either. Now he’s walked off and we’ve had to bring up the second-unit director to finish the picture — it’s just a situation that we have to make work for us. They’re trying to wrap on a soundstage in Queens as we speak.”

“Is that close?”

“Forty minutes by car.”

“Closer than Spain, then.” Vikar says, “I’m being wry.”

“Closer than Spain,” Rondell laughs. “None of this I’ve told you has gotten out so far in the press; but of course such discretion won’t last long. It probably won’t last another day. The phone calls from Variety and the Hollywood Reporter and the L.A. Times will start pouring in,” he looks at his watch, “about five minutes ago.”

“Five minutes ago?” Vikar asks, confused.

“It’s an expression. We’ll have DGA arbitration and, until the Guild sorts it out, this picture is officially directed by nobody. This is why we needed to see you quickly. We’re unofficially scheduled to screen at Cannes in seven months, and while the rational thing might be to pull out, if we do that then between the official undirector and the unofficial withdrawal of the unofficial Cannes selection, what we wind up with is a very official disaster. How is Dotty Langer, by the way?”

It takes Vikar a moment to answer. “I haven’t talked to her in a while.”

“She worked on that picture, right?”

“What?”

“ That picture,” Rondell says, his eyes cast slightly upward.

“Oh.” Vikar touches his head. “I forget it’s up there.”

“I imagine people remind you.”

“Yes.”

“The truth is that if we can get away with it, we would rather go with someone a bit under the radar than some powerhouse editor who will attract attention — I mean,” he laughs a bit, “a different kind of attention than you attract. Please don’t be offended if I say this may prove to be out of your depth, assuming you take it on. But whether you realize it, and I know you haven’t been in the business long, you’re developing something of a reputation for coming into troubled projects and sorting things out.”

“I’ve only done it two or three times.”

“We understand that. We also understand that this project requires more than just sorting out. This will be the biggest thing you’ve done — it’s not some madman in the south of Spain who thinks he’s making Lawrence of Arabia —and I hope I don’t offend you again if I say that in the long run we may wind up bringing in that powerhouse editor after all, who may wind up doing no better than you. This is not a reflection of any lack of confidence in you. It’s a lack of confidence in the circumstances.”

“I’m not offended.”

“Most of the time we feel like we don’t know what this picture is. We don’t know if it’s a thriller or an art film or—”

“Perhaps it’s a thrilling art film. I’m being wry again.”

“We’ll settle for a thrilling art film at this point,” says Rondell. “We’ll settle for salvaging the situation, forget any sort of actual success .”

“Is there a rough yet?”

“Someone’s assembling one now.”

“I hope not too much footage is being cut. I would like to see it.”

“I appreciate that. Do you appreciate, in turn, that time is of the essence?”

“Yes.” Vikar says, “You need the movie in the can if the movie is going to be in the Cannes.” He laughs.

“Six months from now we need something as close to an answer print as possible. An actual booking print would be a dream.”

“All right.”

“What about terms?”

“Terms?”

“We’ll more than match whatever you’re making now for whatever you’re working on.”

“I’m not working on anything. I’m probably not supposed to say that, am I?”

“I’ll pretend you’re being wry again. Let us know what you made on your last job and we’ll increase it twenty-five percent, if that’s acceptable. How’s the room at the Sherry?”

“It’s nice.”

“We keep it for situations like this. Maybe not lavish, but a month from now you won’t feel like the walls are closing in on you, either. Can you be comfortable there for a while?”

“Yes. There’s something else.”

171.

Rondell says, “What’s that?”

“Old movies.”

“Old movies?”

“I collect old movies.” Vikar believes it sounds better to say he collects them than that he steals them. “Prints of old movies. Can I get prints of old movies you’ve made?”

“Are there any you have in mind?”

“I wouldn’t sell them or anything. I would keep them for myself.”

“It would depend on what you have in mind. You know, Broken Blossoms , probably not.”

“Not that old. The private-eye one at the beach,” he says, “ The Long Goodbye . Is that yours?”

“Yes, that’s ours. I might be able to get you that.”

“ Kiss Me Deadly. Sweet Smell of Success . Those are yours?”

“Yes.”

“Especially The Long Goodbye .”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

172.

He’s in New York through the end of the fall, into winter. The winter reminds him of Pennsylvania, bitter mornings rising in his room back at Mather Divinity. As when he was in Madrid, for a while he doesn’t go out into the city, beyond shuttling between the hotel at Fifty-Ninth and Fifth and the editing room at Forty-Ninth and Seventh, where he works nine, eleven, sometimes fourteen hours a day.