The Cutting Room: Dark Reflections of the Silver Screen (20 page)

Two guys and a girl were sitting on the steps. The girl had a butch cut. The guys had hair to their shoulders. They wore sandals, shorts, and that’s all. The girl’s breasts were as brown as nutmeg.

The three of them stared right through me. Their eyes looked big and strange.

I opened my mouth to repeat the question.

But the girl beat me to it. “Wes?” She sounded groggy. “I think out back.”

“Hey, thanks.” But I made sure I had the Porsche’s keys in my pocket before I plodded through sand past sagebrush around the house.

The back had a sundeck too, and as I turned the corner, I saw him up there, leaning against the rail, squinting toward the foothills.

I tried not to show surprise. In person, Wes looked even more like Deacon. Lean, intense, hypnotic. Around twenty-one, the same age Deacon had been when he made his first movie. Sensitive, brooding, as if he suffered secret tortures. But tough-looking too, projecting the image of someone who’d been emotionally savaged once and wouldn’t allow it to happen again. He wasn’t tall, and he sure was thin, but he radiated such energy that he made you think he was big and powerful. Even his clothes reminded me of Deacon. Boots, faded jeans, a denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pack of cigarettes tucked in the fold. And a battered Stetson with the rims curved up to meet the sides.

Actors love to pose, of course. I’m convinced that they don’t even go to the bathroom without giving an imaginary camera their best profile. And the way this kid leaned against the rail, staring moodily toward the foothills, was certainly photogenic.

But I had the feeling it wasn’t a pose. His clothes didn’t seem a deliberate imitation of Deacon. He wore them too comfortably. And his brooding silhouette didn’t seem calculated, either. I’ve been in the business long enough to know. He dressed and leaned that way naturally. That’s the word they use for a winner in this business. He was a natural.

“Wes Crane?” I asked.

He turned and looked down at me. At last, he grinned. “Why not?” He had a vague country-boy accent. Like Deacon.

“I’m David Sloane.”

He nodded.

“Then you recognize the name?”

He shrugged. “Sounds awful familiar.”

“I’m a screenwriter. I did
Broken Promises
, the picture you just finished working on.”

“I remember the name now. On the script.”

“I’d like to talk to you.”

“About?”

“Another script.” I held it up. “There’s a part in it that I think might interest you.”

“So you’re a producer, too?”

I shook my head no.

“Then why come to me? Even if I like the part, it won’t do us any good.”

I thought about how to explain. “I’ll be honest. It’s a big mistake as far as negotiating goes, but I’m tired of bullshit.”

“Cheers.” He raised a beer can to his lips.

“I saw you in the dailies this morning. I liked what I saw. A lot. What I want you to do is read this script and tell me if you want the part. With your commitment and me as director, I’d like to approach a studio for financing. But that’s the package. You don’t do it if I don’t direct. And I don’t do it unless you’re the star.”

“So what makes you think they’d accept me?”

“My wife’s got a hunch.”

He laughed. “Hey, I’m out of work. Anybody offers me a job, I take it. Why should I care who directs? Who are you to me?”

My heart sank.

He opened another beer can. “Guess what, though? I don’t like bullshit, either.” His eyes looked mischievous. “Sure, what have I got to lose? Leave the script.”

My number was on the front of it. The next afternoon, he called.

“This script of yours? I’ll tell you the same thing you said to me about my acting. I liked it. A lot.”

“It still needs a polish.”

“Only where the guy’s best friend gets killed. The hero wouldn’t talk so much about what he feels. The fact is, he wouldn’t say anything. No tears. No outburst. This is a guy who holds himself in. All you need is a close-up on his eyes. That says it all. He stares down at his buddy. He picks up his M16. He turns toward the palace. The audience’ll start to cheer. They’ll know he’s set to kick ass.”

Most times when an actor offers suggestions, my stomach cramps. They get so involved in their part, they forget about the story’s logic. They want more lines. They want to emphasize their role till everybody else in the picture looks weak. Now here was an actor who wanted his largest speech cut out. He was thinking story, not ego. And he was right. That speech had always bothered me. I’d written it ten different ways and still hadn’t figured out what was wrong.

Till now.

“The speech is out,” I said. “It won’t take fifteen minutes to redo the scene.”

“And then?”

“I’ll go to the studio.”

“You’re really not kidding me? You think there’s a chance I can get the part?”

“As much chance as I have to direct it. Remember the arrangement. We’re a package. Both of us, or none.”

“And you don’t want me to sign some kind of promise?”

“It’s called a binder. And you’re right. You don’t have to sign a thing.”

“Let me get this straight. If they don’t want you to direct but they offer me the part, I’m supposed to turn them down. Because I promised you?”

“Sounds crazy, doesn’t it?” The truth was, even if I had his promise in writing, the studio’s lawyers could have it nullified if Wes claimed he’d been misled. This town wouldn’t function if people kept their word.

“Yeah, crazy,” Wes said. “You’ve got a deal.”

In the casting office at the studio, I asked a thirtyish thin-faced woman behind a counter, “Have you got any film on an actor named Crane? Wes Crane?”

She looked at me strangely. Frowning, she opened a filing cabinet and sorted through some folders. She nodded, relieved. “I knew that name was familiar. Sure, we’ve got a screen test on him.”

“What? Who authorized it?”

She studied a page. “Doesn’t say.”

And I never found out, and that’s one of many things that bother me. “Do you know who’s seen the test?”

“Oh, sure, we have to keep a record.” She studied another page. “But I’m the only one who looked at it.”

“You?”

“He came in one day to fill out some forms. We got to kidding around. It’s hard to describe. There’s something about him. So I thought I’d take a look at his test.”

“And?”

“What can I say? I recommended him for that bit part in
Broken Promises
.”

“If I want to see that test, do you have to check with anybody?”

She thought about it. “You’re still on the payroll for
Broken Promises
, aren’t you?”

“Right.”

“And Crane’s in the movie. It seems a legitimate request.” She checked a schedule. “Use screening room four. In thirty minutes. I’ll send down a projectionist with the reel.”

So I sat in the dark and watched the test and first felt the shiver that I’d soon know well.When the reel was over, I didn’t move for quite a while.

The projectionist came out. “Are you all right, Mr. Sloane? I mean, you’re not sick or anything?”

“No. Thanks. I’m. . . .”

“What?”

“Just thinking.”

I took a deep breath and went back to the casting office.

“There’s been a mistake. That wasn’t Crane’s test.”

The thin-faced woman shook her head. “There’s no mistake.”

“But that was a scene from
The Prodigal Son
. James Deacon’s movie. There’s been a switch.”

“No, that was Wes Crane. It’s the scene he wanted to do. The set department used something that looked like the hayloft in the original.”

“Wes. . . .”

“Crane,” she said. “Not Deacon.”

We stared.

“And you liked it?” I asked.

“Well, I thought he was ballsy to choose that scene—and pull it off. One wrong move, he’d have looked like an idiot. Yeah, I liked it.”

“You want to help the kid along?”

“Depends. Will it get me in trouble?”

“Exactly the opposite. You’ll earn brownie points.”

“How?”

“Just phone the studio VP. Tell him I was down here asking to watch a screen test. Tell him you didn’t let me because I didn’t have authorization.

But I acted upset, so now you’ve had second thoughts, and you’re calling him to make sure you did the right thing. You don’t want to lose your job.”

“So what will that accomplish?”

“He’ll get curious. He’ll ask whose test it was. Just tell him the truth. But use these words: ‘The kid who looks like James Deacon.’”

“I still don’t see. . . .”

“You will.” I grinned.

I called my agent and told him to plant an item in
Daily Variety
and
Hollywood Reporter
. “Oscar-winning scribe David Sloane, currently prepping his first behind-the-lens chore on
Mercenaries
, toplining James Deacon lookalike Wes Crane.”

“What’s going on? Is somebody else representing you? I don’t know from chicken livers about
Mercenaries
.”

“Lou, trust me.”

“Who’s the studio?”

“All in good time.”

“You son of a bitch, if you expect me to work for you when somebody else is getting the commission—”

“Believe me, you’ll get your ten percent. But if anybody calls, tell them they have to talk to me. You’re not allowed to discuss the project.”

“Discuss it? How the hell can I discuss it when I don’t know a thing about it?”

“There. You see how easy it’ll be?”

Then I drove to a video store and bought a tape of
The Prodigal Son
.

I hadn’t seen the movie in years. That evening, Jill and I watched it fifteen times. Or at least a part of it that often. Every time the hayloft scene was over, I rewound the tape to the start of the scene.

“For God’s sake, what are you doing? Don’t you want to see the whole movie?”

“It’s the same.” I stared in astonishment.

“What do you mean, the same? Have you been drinking?”

“The hayloft scene. It’s the same as in Wes Crane’s screen test.”

“Well, of course. You told me the set department tried to imitate the original scene.”

“I don’t mean the hayloft.” I tingled again. “See, here in
The Prodigal Son
, Deacon does most of the scene sprawled on the floor of the loft. He has the side of his face pressed against those bits of straw. I can almost smell the dust and the chaff. He’s talking more to the floor than he is to his father behind him.”

“I see it. So what are you getting at?”

“That’s identical in Wes Crane’s test. One continuous shot with the camera at the floor. Crane has his cheek against the wood. He sounds the same as Deacon. Every movement, every pause, even that choking noise right here as if the character’s about to start sobbing—they’re identical.”

“But what’s the mystery about it? Crane must have studied this section before he decided to use it in his test.”

I rewound the tape.

“No, not again,” Jill said.

The next afternoon, the studio VP phoned. “I’m disappointed in you, David.”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t like the rewrite on
Broken Promises
.”

“The rewrite? The . . . oh, yes, the rewrite. Great, David, great. They’re shooting it now. Of course, you understand I had to make a few extra changes. Don’t worry, though. I won’t ask to share the writing credit with you.” He chuckled.

I chuckled right back. “Well, that’s a relief.”

“What I’m calling about are the trades today. Since when have you become a director?”

“I was afraid of this. I’m not allowed to talk about it.”

“I asked your agent. He says he didn’t handle the deal.”

“Well, yeah, it’s something I set up on my own.”

“Where?”

“Walt, really, I can’t talk about it. Those items in the trades surprised the hell out of me. They might screw up the deal. I haven’t finished the negotiations yet.”

“With this kid who looks like James Deacon.”

“Honestly, I’ve said as much as I can, Walt.”

“I’ll tell you flat out. I don’t think it’s right for you to try to sneak him away from us. I’m the one who discovered him, remember. I had a look at his screen test yesterday. He’s got the makings of a star.”

I knew when he’d screened that test. Right after the woman in the casting department phoned him to ask if I had a right to see the test. One thing you can count on in this business. Everybody’s so paranoid they want to know what everybody else is doing. If they think a trend is developing, they’ll stampede to follow it.