Bruce Wagner - I’m Losing You

Aside from Mr. Rubidoux, there were two others present — an in-house lawyer named Fred, a fan of the Undead series who’d lingered after an unrelated meeting just to shake the semi-legendary schlock-meister’s hand, and Denny, a shiny-faced boy of voting age who Bernie was shocked to learn was a Veepee. Everybody in town was a fuhcocktuh Veepee.

They kvetched about how the business had changed, and Bernie thought that mildly comical, as no one in the room looked over thirty-five. Nostrils dilating, Pierre rhapsodized about Donny Ribkin. When asked if they were close, Bernie lied — then got a twinge of paranoia. What if the exec decided to call the psychotic, vituperative agent just to shoot the bull about Dad? That didn’t really seem to be an issue; in his current state, Bernie doubted his son would be at work, let alone returning calls. Another possibility was that Donny’s condition might soon go public. Though there wasn’t anything in the papers yet, Bernie had to admit the boy was bound to hurt someone, or himself, unless he found help — fast. He hoped that wouldn’t happen. At least, not before a deal was in place.

“Bottom line: Showtime’s willing to give you two and a half million for the rights. How does that sound, Bernie?”

The old man smiled, trying to be cool. The muscles around his mouth went into spasm and he coughed, to cover. All he’d expected was an option at a token amount. He was glad to have taken the pills.

“For all three pictures—” He coughed again.

“That is correct. But here’s what we need: we need you to come on board, to produce this at a price.”

“You’ve done this before and you’ve done it well ,” said Denny the Boy, self-assuredly.

“The more things change, the more things change,” said Bernie. His Sinatra ring-a-ding mode.

Denny the Boy turned to Fred. “Who said that?”

“Travolta,” said the Attorney. “ Look Who’s Talking Too .”

“What do you think, Bernie?”

Pierre bore in on him, shining the light of a batty grin.

“I think it’s a beautiful thing,” said Bernie, smooth as a Hillcrest macher . “You know, I was doing this when ‘cable’ was something you sent over the wire. What price are we talking?”

“A million-five, with an eighteen- to twenty-day shoot.”

“For each?”

“We only want to make one. A kind of condensed version of the three.”

A million-five and a twenty-day shoot . Sounded reasonable. Of course, he’d been out of the game awhile…but these men were professionals. They wouldn’t be suggesting impossible numbers. Yet the two-and-a-half-million-dollar acquisition-of-rights fee didn’t add up, in light of the budget. He asked Pierre to reiterate, and the executive said the money was an advance against distribution, foreign and domestic. That made sense, but Bernie didn’t want to open his mouth too much. He’d sort it out with the lawyers.

“I don’t think any of this is going to be a problem, gentlemen. I’m Bernie Ribkin. I like to make movies.”

The sweet rustle of assent; then Pierre grew solemn, like a minister at a sticky theological crossroad. Fred and Denny stared at the floor. “Question, Bernie: do you think you could make it for under a million?”

Truth was, Bernie didn’t know. “Pierre, tell me,” began the scat and softshoe. “What kind of approach are you going to take? What I’m saying is, how do you…does Showtime have an idea how they might want to approach the property? With this material—”

“Maybe something like Tales from the Crypt . Classy, but not taking itself too seriously. Something that can be sexy, funny and gory, all in one.”

“ Creepshow ,” said the Boy. “Remember that? Leslie Nielsen?”

“Did you know Ted Danson was in that?”

“And Adrienne Barbeau.”

“Jesus,” said Pierre. “What ever happened to her?”

“Hunger commercials with Sally Struthers.”

“She had some very serious tits,” said Fred the Attorney.

“Well, they’re in Ethiopia now.”

“Sally and Adrienne? Or the tits?”

“The tits stayed here. They just signed with Gersh.”

“I think it’s important to come up with a franchise-type narrator,” Pierre said. “Someone like the Cryptkeeper to tie it all together — he’d be our link, our tentpole.”

Bernie nodded. He’d seen Tales a few times and thought it was cute. “Okay,” he said. “I got it. I got it. That’s fun.”

“Now, Bernie,” said Pierre. “I want to ask you something pointblank. You don’t even have to respond.”

“I’m seventy-two years old.”

“I was not going to ask your age,” said a smiling Pierre.

“You look fucking great ,” said Fred. “Doesn’t he?”

“I would never have guessed you to be seventy-two,” said the Boy.

“I’ll tell you my secret: I like to fuck. I don’t fuck too well — but I fuck every day!”

The men laughed.

“Bernie—” Pierre began, “—and remember, you don’t have to answer this now .” He inhaled deeply. “Do you think you could make our little movie — at least submit a budget — for four hundred thousand? With a ten-day shoot? I mean, down and dirty.”

How could he deliver a budget without a script? They used to shoot ’em in a week and a half, but that was thirty years ago — without unions or permits. If the movie took place in one location, maybe…

“I don’t know what four hundred thousand gets you, Pierre. And it depends on the script, we don’t have a script! I need to do some investigations.” He turned to Fred the Attorney and smiled cockily. “Four hundred thousand. Does that rent you a honey wagon these days?”

“Here’s a hypothetical,” said Pierre. “If you can do this show — because this is the way your two and a half million would be guaranteed up front —if you can do this show for a hundred thousand dollars, a three-day shoot, no frills, no bullshit, bam bam bam —”

“You’re kidding. Are you kidding?”

“I’m not fucking kidding, Bernie. You would not be in this room if I was kidding.”

“You mean like a video thing—”

“Feature film.”

“It’s just that—”

“A hundred thousand dollars, Bernie. Three days.”

“Yes!” cried the Boy. “I love it. Come on, Bernie. They made Clerks for twenty-nine thousand and change. El Mariachi was made for seven !”

“I have to go,” said Fred, ill at ease. Again he shook Bernie’s hand. “I have an appointment.”

The room shrank precipitously when he left. Bernie felt woozy and reprimanded himself for taking the Halcion. “Three days!” He rocked in his chair, sweating and grinning like a hooked grouper.

“It’s definitely do-able,” said the Boy. “We’ll get you great people. Some killer kids. We’ll get you the kids from Kids .”

Pierre retreated to his desk. “If you put your mind to it, Bernie, if you work out the logistics, I’m convinced you can shoot this with a Steadicam in forty-eight hours.”

“A one-day shoot would be the ultimate,” added the Boy. “I’d like to make a string of these — a series — each shot in one day. Film-school style.”

“Think about it. Any way you slice it, we have a deal. Congratulations! Cups of borscht and crackers all around. I’ll have business affairs draw the papers and get you half your advance — one-point-two-five, you can buy a lotta kippers with that, Bernie — soon as I see a budget. Cut a check the same day. If you don’t think you can do this, be honest , huh? Because I’m committed to this project and we’ll have to find another way.”