Bruce Wagner - The Chrysanthemum Palace

“I know,” said Thad. “I read somewhere that Rumsfeld’s a fan.”

“Yes!” said Nick, gleefully. “I’d heard that! And Dylan ! Dylan’s supposedly obsessed!”

“Wow,” Thad said, without irony.

“David Sedaris is very big on it.”

“Really.”

“Oh yes. And the girl who wrote — not Adaptation but… The Orchid Thief. And who’s the Atonement writer?”

“Ian McEwan? You’re kidding.”

“McEwan! Yes. Big, big fan.”

“Well… I’m shocked!” said Thad, in dismay.

“By the way, I hadn’t told you, but I thought you were absolutely amazing in Quixote. Brilliant!”

“Thank you. Working with Terry is an ‘experience.’ ”

“Gilliam! There’s a wild bloke!”

“He’s very wonderful.”

“A mad boy but a wicked talent,” said Nick. “And great good fun. We worked together ten years ago, in Scotland.” Thad didn’t bother inquiring further. “Did your father ever see the show?”

“I don’t think so. Dad didn’t watch much TV. But you never know!” he exclaimed. “I could be wrong — Jack Michelet may very well have been a closet Starwatch fanatic! Right up there with Ben Stiller, Naguib Mahfouz, and Susan Sontag! Could’ve been”—this, à la Charlie Chan—“Numbah One Fan!”

“I guess,” Nick conceded, “you don’t become that prolific sitting around watching the telly.”

Thad registered the innocent comment as a dig: performing on the telly was an existentially malignant exercise. You might as well be a clown with leukemia.

“I hear you’ve written books,” said Nick. “Novels, right? To me, that’s absolutely the toughest thing. And to write in the shadow of that man. ” He grinned, shaking his head. “Bit like being a sherpa to Hillary.”

“Our styles are pretty different,” said Thad politely, gathering his tray to leave.

Clea’s face was like a Tornado Alley weather vane — the tremble before the wild-ass spin. “Does he mean Hillary Clinton?” she said with a fake smile, buying time so that some of us could make it to the storm cellar.

“Rather like me having John Huston for a father — to put it in filmic terms.” Nick shoveled up peas, potatoes, and a fatty square of pork chop. “Tell me, though, didja feel a lift with his passing? I don’t mean ‘glad.’ It’s just that, well, personally, I was so competitive with me old man. Most sons are. And he was no genius, thank you — thank God for that! Not that I am. Compared to him, maybe. A haberdasher, he was. Good at what he did, worked on Savile Row. Never saw a thing of mine, not even a student film. S’pose he was competitive as well, maybe more so. What I’m driving at is: was it a lift, Thad? Is it easier now that he’s gone? In the sense of, well, d’ya find you’re doing a bit less shadowboxing?”

“Not really.”

“I don’t mean to psychoanalyze! Probably projecting a bit — still working out my own stuff. When I was in college, I read a book of his called Chrysanthemum. ”

Again, Clea blacked up. Noticing her mood change, Thad grew strangely perky. “Glad to hear it! It’s not one of his better-knowns.”

“True,” said the director, matter-of-factly. “Can’t say why.”

“There are some rather explicit passages,” said Thad. “Almost pornographic, don’t you think, Clea? A few of the libraries tried to ban it, stateside. A town somewhere in Ohio actually had a book burning. ”

“Don’t fuck with Ohioans!” said Nick. “Did an Old Navy shoot there once, don’t ask me why. Lovely college, though — Wexner? Wexler? Spoke to a film class; gave me a brickload of coin. There’s money there but it was dull. Thuggish. Middle American, right? Not for me. I’m a bit of a mad boy, like Terry. I’m dying to do a feature.” He rubbed his hands together, like a hobo at a trash-can fire. “TV’s fun but you’re a bit in the box. It has grown up, with cable and such. I mean, it’s what Dennis Potter was doing thirty years ago, hunh? Hard to watch your mates pass you by. Tony Minghella and the Scott brothers — those were me mates! They threw me some commercials — they’re the kings of that world — but I won’t spend my life on cranes swooping down on a fucking Lexus. If I want to give a BMW a blow job, I’ll do it in the privacy of my garage, thank you very much! The really great thing about TV is it’s so fucking immediate —I don’t have to tell you —doesn’t drag on a year or two, like film. Still, I’m chompin’ at the bit. There’s nothin’ like the movies!” He paused to shovel in food. “But they kill you if you’re ‘askew,’ right? If that’s your sensibility. What’d they do to Orson Welles? It’s All True. Ever see that? The studio fucked him in Brazil while they mutilated Ambersons in L.A. That’s how they reward you if you’re ‘askew’! Still, I’d love to have a go at Chrysanthemum. It’s one of those pieces I dread picking up Variety to see it’s snapped up by someone who’s going to mutilate it — or worse, do it justice!”

He laughed heartily at the last remark.

“I’m gonna go have a cigarette,” said Clea, then left.

“I was wondering, Thad? Have you written for the screen? Have you thought about it?”

“Well, yes. But I don’t suppose I’ve made a serious effort.”

“Might you consider adapting Chrysanthemum to film? I’m bloody serious, you know.”

Thad’s face froze in a creepy smile; I chose to intervene.

“You know, Nick, I’m pretty sure my father has the option on that.”

“Oh yes, I know! And we’ve talked about it, Perry and I — we’ve discussed it. Casually, at first. When he found out how passionate I was about the property… well, that he owned the option turned out the most amazing thing. Magical, really. I mean I can’t even remember, we were talking and it just came out of nowhere. He didn’t mind the idea of attaching me to it, on a handshake — that’s how I like to do things. How your dad operates too. S’pose that’s how he’s gotten all this way, right? When I suggested Thad have a go at it, he thought: Brilliant! We were having a coffee and Perry said your agent — she’s called Miriam? — he said Miriam had already been in touch about novelizing ‘Prodigal Son.’ I thought that a tragic waste! May as well put you to work on something epic, something decent, right? Something really brilliant .”

WHEN THAD LEARNED OF MIRIAM’Sscheme, he seemed too weary and disgusted to be angry. I watched him go through the motions of confronting her at the hotel, where, like showbiz gypsies, it was our custom to indulge in a nightly room-service supper, regardless of the prevailing hunger or mood. Miriam shrank while Thad shook, rattled, and ultimately rolled the offensive, well-meaning gesture off his back with a shrug. It was my sense he knew there was a large part of Miriam that might never understand him yet would do anything to aid, comfort, and support. She was true blue and for that, he could never fault her. He was also well aware she must have been as frustrated by his miserable luck and rapid-cycling, self-defeating nihilism as he. After all, it was Miriam who’d stayed in his corner through the years, even when it wasn’t profitable, which now it seldom was. They had known each other forever — she’d been closer to his folks than any of his friends — and one of the things he appreciated most was how she had never evinced interest in becoming professionally involved with his father’s business. There had been opportunity; Jack Michelet was famously persuasive, one time suggesting out of sheer spite that Miriam become his agent too. She turned him down cold. Her allegiance was total.