William Kienzle - Deadline for a Critic

Harison could not speak. He merely nodded as tears—unique at this funeral—streamed down his cheeks.

As Koesler finished greeting as many in the congregation as possible in a brief time, his eyes swept the rest of the people. Smiling, he tried to communicate a peaceful wish to all. His gaze was arrested by the face of Carroll Mitchell. Koesler flashed the “V” for peace sign. Mitchell smiled and nodded, as if to say, “Yes, I am indeed at peace . . . now.”

Koesler’s mind returned to the seminary of his day. Then, the greeting was called “the kiss of peace.” But it was about as removed from a “kiss” as possible. The “giver” placed his hands on the shoulders of the “receiver,” who supported the other’s elbows. The greeting was, “pax tecum”— peace be with you.” The response was, “et cum spiritu two”—“ and with your spirit.” Koesler, Mitchell, and Groendal had exchanged this greeting many, many times.

Koesler now wondered what might be on Mitchell’s mind. Would Mitch be generous enough to wish that Groendal be at peace now in death? Koesler was fairly sure that Mitch himself felt a greater sense of peace. If there were any doubt whatsoever in Koesler’s mind, that doubt would have been dispelled by a conversation the two had had recently.

Koesler and Mitchell had not crossed paths for many years. That was to be expected; they traveled in vastly different circles. It was difficult enough for Koesler to keep in touch with all his priest friends without keeping in contact with someone he once knew in the seminary—even if they had been, at that time, good friends.

Then, one day about two months before Ridley’s death, they chanced to meet in downtown Detroit. Mitchell’s wife was with him. It was midafternoon. The three found a quiet cafeteria where they could sit and visit over coffee.

It did not take them long to review their histories since last they had met. Mitchell was far more familiar with what had been going on in Koesler’s life than vice versa. Koesler had been editor of the Detroit Catholic and had been involved in helping the police in several criminal investigations. So he had had some measure of publicity.

“Well, I’ve read about you, too,” Koesler said. “Something about Hollywood?”

“Something about Hollywood,” Mitchell repeated as if Hollywood had been a disease instead of a place. “Yeah, I go there from time to time. Screenplays. I go to L.A. either to write them or fix something somebody else wrote. It’s a living.”

“It’s better than that” Lynn Mitchell amended. “It’s a darn good living.” She spoke with an unmistakable sense of pride in her husband.

Mitch chuckled. “At least we don’t have to live there.”

“You don’t?” Koesler had no idea what screenwriting involved, but he was not uninterested in learning something about it.

“No. Generally, if I’m commissioned to write a screenplay, I do my research here or, if where the story takes place is vital, I go to the location. Whatever, I don’t write in L.A.—unless of course that’s the location of the story.”

“But you must go to Hollywood sometime.”

Mitch nodded. “When I finish the script. To present it to the producer and director. Once they read it and okay it, I get out of town until they start shooting.”

“You’ve got to go back?”

“It changes.”

“It does?”

“Once they begin filming, the script is likely to change by the day.”

“After the producer and director already approved it?”

“Yeah, that’s right. But that’s a problem right there. I figure not only can’t they write, they don’t read very well, either. So when they get together with the actors, it gets kind of existential. The actor isn’t comfortable with a scene. He or she wants a change in dialogue. Or the director wants to throw his weight around. So he calls in the writer and tells him to change everything.”

“Why doesn’t he change it himself?”

“Like I said, he can’t write.”

“So what do you do then?”

“I usually take the script he’s hacked to pieces and let it rest a while. Then I retype it just the way it was and give it back to him. And,” Mitch gestured offhandedly, “this time he loves it.”

“But it’s the same material.”

“I told you: He can’t read either.”

“I’m beginning to see why you want to spend as little time there as possible.”

“And,” Lynn added, “Mitch is considerate enough not to insist that I go along . . . unless I feel I need a vacation, that is.”

“A vacation from the kids?” Koesler asked.

“Thank you very much, Father.” Lynn smiled. “From the grandkids.”

Koesler was thankful he had erred on the diplomatic side of flattery. But he was also taken back. This couple was his age, almost exactly. They were grandparents. With no children and thus no grandchildren he never consciously thought of himself being of a grandfatherly age. Maybe it was because everyone—whether they were much older or much younger than he—called him “Father.”

Or, perhaps because he had no family of his own, he could not appraise himself as most other people. In the mainstream of life, human beings begin as children, then they marry, have children, watch those children mature and marry. Soon there are grandchildren; perhaps great-grandchildren.

Seeing oneself reproduced through generations probably is nature’s way of reminding one of the aging process—and a preparation for one’s own death. The priest found that a rich thought. He would have to develop it in meditation sometime soon.

“What I can’t quite understand,” Koesler said, “is why with all your screenplays, I haven’t seen your name in the papers more often?”

Mitchell shook his head. “That’s something else, Bob. For one thing, a lot of the scripts I work on never see the light of day. I’m given the assignment to work up something original, maybe adapt something from a book somebody else wrote. So I do the job and nothing happens. Maybe they run out of money before or during shooting. Or maybe they get the whole thing in the can and can’t find a distributor. Lots of things can happen.”

He shook his head. “I know. I know. You thought every movie made gets shown. But no: Lots of times it stays in the can on the shelf of some producer’s home or in some studio.”

Afternoon drive-time rush hour was approaching. Koesler wanted to start for his suburb before the majority of downtown workers joined him. Too, he sensed that Mitch and Lynn had other things planned besides talking to him. He crumpled his paper napkin and dropped it in his empty cup. The others caught the signal and began preparations for leaving.

“Oh, by the way,” Koesler said. “I meant to ask you about the stage—the legitimate theater. You must be involved in that.”

Though the question had been uppermost in Koesler’s mind from the moment he first recognized the Mitchells, it had slipped to the back with all the talk about movies. He would not have forgiven himself had he not asked about the stage. God only knew how long before he might bump into the Mitchells again.

From the look that crossed Mitch’s face, Koesler realized he had broached a painful subject.

Lynn cleared her throat. “It’s his first love, Father. It just hasn’t worked out the way we wanted.”

Koesler felt awkward. He shouldn’t have introduced the matter. But how could he have known? “Well, that is too bad, Mitch. But then, you’ve got the movies. And from all you and Lynn have said, that pays pretty well.”

Mitchell shrugged. “It’s not the same. It’s just not the same. The stage is where it’s at. For one thing, the playwright is in command in almost the same way the author is in command of a book. You’re reasonably sure going into it that if it’s performed, some halfwit isn’t going to mutilate it. On the stage, the director and actors usually enhance what you’ve written.