Araluen (48 page)

But he knew the answer. He’d tripped too far and too often. He had to clean up his act. He called a meeting - just Emma, Stanley and Mandy. He wasn’t going to admit his errors to all and sundry - these were the three he needed on side.

‘I fucked up,’ he announced. ‘It’s my fault and I take full responsibility. You advised me against
it, particularly you, Emma, and I wouldn’t listen.’

‘Oh, I think we all went off the rails a bit,’ Emma said, and she looked at Stanley, who nodded in agreement. It was true. Stanley too had had his misgivings at the outset of the venture, but both he and Emma had allowed themselves to be caught up in Michael’s madness, and had allowed their work to become inconsistent and indulgent.

Michael laughed. ‘Bullshit,’ he said. ‘What egos you people have. I insist on taking full credit for the stuff-up.’ Secretly he was delighted by their loyalty. ‘Besides,’ he added with an impish grin, ‘that way I can take full credit for the mammoth success we’re about to create.’ He leaned over the huge boardroom desk which was strewn with notepads, pencils and jugs of water and glasses. A session was about to get under way. ‘I have ideas, masses of them, and I need input. Everybody ready?’ Emma and Stanley nodded and grabbed pencils and paper. ‘Mandy, take notes,’ Michael ordered and Mandy sat, poised, in front of the computer at the other end of the table.

‘Stuff the glossy unlimited-budget crap,’ he said excitedly. ‘This one’s going to rely on content. Original, topical content with a moral theme. And an actor who’ll blow their tits off. Modest budget. We’re going to show them that we can really make movies.’

Michael saw no reason to share Franklin’s threat with them. ‘You’ve got one more chance, boy,’ Franklin had said. ‘I know I gave you free rein to produce your own projects and I’ll stand by my word. I shan’t interfere with your next film,
but I’ll not have this company made a laughing stock, do you hear me?’

Franklin was in a genuine dilemma. He still worried about Michael’s drug intake and he wondered whether it was responsible for the film’s abysmal failure but, despite Karol Mankowski’s continued surveillance, nothing could be proved. Michael’s ‘party’ friends were loyal - after all, Michael was a very generous provider - and his creative associates assured Franklin that Michael was never drug-affected during working hours.

‘Another monumental mistake like that last fiasco and you’re out,’ he growled. ‘This is your second chance and you’d better make it count. And you’d better make it count on one-tenth of the budget – you understand me?’

‘Yes, Grandfather.’ Michael had understood him all right. And the prospect was strangely exciting. A movie free of tricks. No Halley’s Comet to film. No America’s Cup to steal. Not even a massive budget to impress. Yes, it was exciting. He’d prove to the world that he was a true movie maker. ‘So we need a topic and we need an actor: let’s start from there,’ he said, jumping out of his chair and pacing around the boardroom. He always liked to move when he felt a creative surge.

‘Let’s look for the actor first.’ It was a bizarre way to go, he knew, but he was warming to his theme and there was no stopping him. ‘We’ll pick an actor that this country loves – male or female, it doesn’t matter – and we’ll write the perfect vehicle to fit the star. An English actor. Or a European, with international appeal. Americans take
the English and the Europeans so seriously. Emma, you first, what do you think?’

Emma was a little bemused. As usual Michael was moving at a pace that was very difficult to keep up with. ‘Well, I think we need to at least have some idea of what sort of comment we’re going to make before we start choosing an actor.’

‘Rubbish. The choice of actor’ll do that for us.’ The others gazed back at him, bewildered. ‘Look,’ he explained, just a little impatiently, ‘to the Americans, the English are aristocrats and the Europeans are lovers. If we pick an Italian star we head for a sexual comment. If we pick an English star we head for a class statement. Simple.’

Emma nodded. Yes, it was simple. Michael’s basic ideas always were simple. Simple and clever. ‘Excellent,’ she said. ‘What do you think, Stanley?’

‘This is a bit out of my league,’ Stanley smiled. ‘Can you come back to me when you want a few stunts?’

But Michael wasn’t in the mood for jokes. ‘Call up the B-list star file, Mandy,’ he instructed, ‘and then go and get me the newspapers. We’ll marry the star with the topic. Something current, something global.’

They studied the computer screen while Mandy fetched the papers. The B-list star file was a comprehensive record of actors who commanded top billing but didn’t demand top dollar and a share in the profits. ‘Can’t afford the A-list – they’re too commercial anyway,’ Michael insisted. ‘The bigger they are the bigger they can flop at the box office. We need someone the public takes seriously.’

It was Emma who came up with the ideal candidate.
Well, Emma and Mandy together. Mandy was scouring the papers for issues. ‘Hey, there’s an editorial here on the French nuclear testings in the South Pacific. That’s a helluva hot one.’

‘Yes, but it’s been going on for years,’ Stanley said. ‘Maybe we should head for something more current, more headline…’

‘No,’ Michael disagreed, ‘if we go for something headline it might be yesterday’s news by the time the movie comes out. It has to be an ongoing issue. Good one, Mandy.’

‘Marcel Gireaux!’ Emma yelled it out and they all jumped. She’d been rolling through the actors’ names and biographies, starting with the Europeans. She’d done the Italians and was into the French. The name leapt at her from the screen. ‘Marcel Gireaux,’ she said again. ‘You won’t find a European actor the public will take more seriously than Gireaux and you get the two elements in the one bloke. Sex appeal and political commitment. He’s one of Greenpeace’s major spokes-people. We’d gain fantastic press from the fact that he’s allied himself to the movie because he believes in the cause.’

‘Bring us the composite file on Gireaux,’ Michael ordered. As Mandy left, he started prowling the room again. He could feel the familiar buzz. It was an excellent idea. ‘But could we get him? He’s France’s major classical actor, and he’s shunned Hollywood for years. The only movie directors he’ll work with are Truffaut and Zeffirelli and Malle and … ’

‘But we’re not Hollywood,’ Emma countered. ‘We’ll show him
Halley’s
and
Blue Water History
and tell him that we’re putting all of that original approach into a movie about the environment. A movie about a man committed to the welfare of the planet and his fellow man.’

‘Yes, that’s it,’ Michael agreed. ‘Appeal to his vanity and his ambition. He’s probably after a career in politics – we tell him he can use this as his personal springboard – ’

‘Wrong,’ Emma interrupted. ‘Very wrong. He’s an idealist, not personally motivated at all. What’s more, he’d be deeply insulted if you inferred he was. He’d run a mile. Haven’t you read anything at all about him?’

Mandy arrived with the file. ‘Of course I have,’ Michael answered, ‘but it’s bullshit. The man’s protecting his image.’ Emma was shaking her head in disagreement. ‘Oh, come on, Emma,’ he insisted, ‘anyone can be bought.’

‘Just look at him,’ Mandy interrupted as she spread the photographs out on the table. ‘That’s what I call sex appeal. What a hunk!’

The photos showed a tall man in his mid-thirties with a granite face, a rather large nose and a head of thick, greying hair. It wasn’t a conventionally handsome face but there was a sensitive curve to the lip and the eyes were enquiring. It was an intriguing blend of the patrician, the sensual and the intelligent.

‘I agree,’ Emma said. ‘He’s a hunk, all right. If we get Gireaux we get everything we want in the one actor.’

‘What do you think, Stanley?’ Michael asked.

‘Does he do his own stunts?’ Stanley was feeling a little out of his element. The plotting and scheming
and conniving wasn’t his area and he was more than happy to admit it.

The others laughed. ‘Marcel Gireaux it is then,’ Michael announced.

They started on a treatment that same afternoon, and a month later they had a first draft script. But, as they’d anticipated, the script was not the problem. The problem was the contracting of Marcel Gireaux. ‘Monsieur Gireaux is not interested in making an American film’ was the terse reply from his agent in Paris.

Michael responded by sending the agent tapes of
Halley’s
and
Blue Water History
together with a synopsis of the newly titled
Earth Man
and the assurance that it would be shot primarily on location in the South Pacific by a European director mutually agreed upon by both parties. The response was a little less terse but predominantly the same. ‘Monsieur Gireaux found your films well-made and the premise of
Earth Man
sound but he regrets he is not interested in making an American film.’

Emma was prepared to give up but Michael refused. ‘We have to see him personally,’ he insisted. ‘He has to realise that we’re not Hollywood producers, that we’re not brash and materialistic and –’ Emma couldn’t resist a smile. ‘OK,’ Michael grinned back, ‘so I’m brash and materialistic, but you’re not. You’re the one, Emma. You go to Paris and get the man on side.’

‘Me?’

‘You. Start packing, you’re off to Paris.’

A fortnight later, having secured an agreement from the French agent that Monsieur Gireaux
would at least grant an interview with Miss Clare, Emma was on her way.

It was business, she reminded herself as she boarded the plane. Purely business. She was to hand over the final script to Marcel Gireaux and she was to acquire the actor’s services. But she couldn’t deny the thrill of anticipation. Paris! She was going to Paris.

The day after she arrived, she booked out of the suite Michael had arranged for her at the Hilton – ‘I know you want to mingle with the peasants, Emma, but it’s not good for the image,’ he’d insisted – and she found herself an attractive little bed and breakfast place which catered for four guests only. It was in the Latin Quarter, a minute’s walk from the embankment and, through her bedroom window, if she leant out far enough, she could catch a glimpse of Notre Dame Cathedral. Emma was in seventh heaven.

She walked and walked until her feet ached. For a full two days she explored Paris by foot, both the tourist spots and the backstreet alleys. On the third day, she prepared herself for her appointment with Marcel Gireaux.

His agent’s offices were on the second floor of a gloomy little house in a gloomy little lane behind the Rue Lafayette and they consisted of a tiny reception area with a tiny receptionist and the ‘inner sanctum’. The inner sanctum was a room barely larger than the reception area with just enough space for a sizeable desk, an office chair and two rather uncomfortable seats for guests. It
was fortunate, Emma thought, that the agent, a bony man called Jean-Pierre, was as petite as his receptionist.

‘Miss Clare, come in, come in,’ he said, gesturing toward one of the uncomfortable chairs and sidling his way around the desk. The walls were smothered with photos of actors and, dead centre, in pride of place, larger than all the other photographs, was a portrait of Marcel Gireaux. It was obvious he was the star attraction of the agency. Emma didn’t know whether it was a good sign or not. In fact she didn’t know what to make of the entire situation. She certainly hadn’t expected such a seedy set-up for France’s premier classical actor.

‘Marcel has just telephoned,’ Jean-Pierre said in his fractured English, ‘he is on his way. Cafe?’

‘Thank you, yes.’ Ten minutes later, and several sips into a mug of lukewarm, muddy coffee (fancy a French person making bad coffee!’ she thought) the door was flung open and Marcel Gireaux arrived.

He was too big for the office, she thought. Not that he was physically enormous. He was relatively tall, and his build was certainly in proportion to his height, but it was his presence which was too big for the office.

‘Bonjour, Jean-Pierre. Miss Clare.’ He shook her hand without waiting for an introduction. ‘I am sorry. I have kept you waiting.’ The voice, too, was big. Big and magnificent.

‘That’s perfectly all right.’ She gestured to her coffee mug. ‘Monsieur Marchand has been looking after me.’

‘Hah. Filthy stuff, yes? Come. I shall buy you
some excellent coffee and croissants at my favourite patisserie.’

‘No really, I’m … ’ She looked at Jean-Pierre to see if he was offended but he was nodding benignly. Meetings at the agency were only ever a ruse for Marcel. If Marcel sat down in the uncomfortable chair to chat it meant he wasn’t interested and it was Jean-Pierre’s signal to get rid of the other party as soon as was politely possible.

‘I may call you Emma, yes?’ Marcel was assisting her to her feet and she was at the door before she knew it.

‘Yes, of course. Thank you for the coffee, Monsieur Marchand, I’m sorry to – ’

‘And you must call me Marcel.’ He pointed at the briefcase she was carrying. ‘You have the script?’

‘Yes.’ Three steps and they were through the reception area.

‘Good, good.’

Marcel took her to his favourite sidewalk cafe in the Rue Lafayette and ordered croissants. Then he held out his hand. ‘The script?’

‘Oh. Yes, of course.’ She opened the briefcase and handed him the script. He sat forward in his seat, hunched over the table, and buried himself in it, oblivious to all else.

Emma looked at him for a moment. He’d forgotten she was there, the concentration was so intense. She turned her attention to the passers-by. It was a beautiful autumn day. A clear blue sky and a nip in the air. And the Rue Lafayette was a passing parade. She could sit here forever, she thought.

‘Croissants, M’sieur?’ They’d been so tied up in themselves that they’d both failed to notice the waiter standing by, patiently, waiting for a space to be cleared on the table.

‘Oui. Merci.’ Unfazed, Marcel closed the script, pushed it to one side and sat back in his seat.

‘You are very young,’ he said and she wondered whether she should be offended by the accusation.

‘I’m nearly twenty-four,’ she answered. ‘And I’ve been writing for television and film since I was seventeen.’