HOWL AND THE PUSSY-KAT.1

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Having bowdlerised Edward Lear’s poem for my title and a certain loose continuity of story-line, I have taken another small liberty and tinkered with the history of Hollywood.

This is a novel - so, reader, expect to meet people you don’t know. You will also meet people you thought were dead (a not uncommon occurrence in the City of Angels). Some of your favourite stars have disappeared from pictures you thought they were in and now appear in movies where you won’t remember them, including a few you won’t remember seeing.

I hope no one feels slighted by these alterations. Tough titty if they do. Some at least are compensated by winning awards (Oscars, Golden Globes, BAFTAs, etc) they failed to win in the “real” Hollywood.

If a real Hollywood can ever be said to have existed.

D.G.

*****************************************

Chapter One: THE PITCH

It was the best of mornings, it was the worst of mornings: it was the morning after the Oscars. Isaac Hunt, Executive President of the studio that bore his name, was attending an autopsy.

His office on the second floor of Hunt Studios’ Art-Deco Executive Building on Wilshire was done out in tawny shades of marble. This resemblance to a Thirties morgue made it the perfect venue for a post mortem. Unseen on the bird’s-eye-maple desk, the corpus delicti was Isaac’s studio – his job, his life.

“Basically we’re headed down the crapper,” said Isaac. He was a martyr to Irritable Bowel Syndrome, and the ailment was reflected in a scatological vocabulary. Today his bowels were not so much irritable as anguished.

“Lighten up, Isaac,” said the younger of the other two men present, who was dressed in Calvin Klein jeans, a Ralph Lauren polo shirt and Nike trainers. He had a mane of pony-tailed black hair. “Look how well we did with Windbag.”

This was generous praise from Ben Burns, (né Benjamin Bernstein), head of Hunt’s Writers Department. “Windbag” was their codename for Lady Van-de-Meer’s Wind, which had won Best Original Screenplay last night, not for Ben Burns but for Tom Stoppard. It also took Best Costume Design for Stella McCartney and Best Supporting Actress for Joan – Dame Joan, and don’t you forget it! – Collins. But the movie hadn’t been big at the Box Office: more Madness of King George than Shakespeare in Love.

Isaac wore a cream-colored linen suit: his trademark. His head too was crowned by a mane of black hair, much shorter than Ben’s and not pony-tailed. It was a wig that had cost $7,500 and would have seemed perfectly natural on almost any other head.

“How many extra asses will Oscar-winning frocks put on seats?” he demanded. “And they’re all shitting Brits.”

Wi-i-i-indba-a-a-a-g, as Dame Joan was over-fond of calling it, had been a Hunt Studios-British Lion “co-production”: i.e. a British Lion movie financed and distributed by Hunt or, rather, distributed by Isaac and financed by the third man at this meeting.

“Look at San shitting Francisco,” Isaac added.

Ben Burns’ expression turned contrite. He had scripted Hunt’s remake of the 1936 classic, which had only been nominated for its excruciatingly costly Special Effects and lost out to Fox’s The Big One, James Cameron’s update of Earthquake. Disaster movies – like movie disasters – often come in pairs.

The Big One, with an all-star cast, had recouped a $250 million budget in its opening week world-wide. San Francisco, at $138 million the most expensive movie in Hunt Studios’ history, starring Liam Neeson and Dolores Delano, had bombed, returning less than $50 million so far. “Neeson looks uncomfortable – as well he might – in this clunker,” Hollywood Reporter had said. And Dolores (“the Aztec Princess” who actually hailed from the slums of Veracruz) had reminded Variety of Shelley Winters in a 1970s disaster movie: “You long for her to go for an underwater swim – and not make it through.”

“I think we’d do better to look at Mrs Bates,” said the third man. In contrast to Isaac and Ben, two short overweight Jews (albeit born 40 years and 2,500 miles apart), this man was tall, pallid, cadaverously thin. Wearing a black worsted suit of Edwardian cut he looked, appropriately for this morning’s gathering, like a funeral director. John Carradine (1906-88) would have to be exhumed to play him on screen. He was 80, five years older than Isaac. His name was Titus Q. Nunns. (He had no middle name: the “Q” attempted to forestall the “A” with which all Hollywood relentlessly replaced it.) Nunns Finance Inc, a private bank owned entirely by Titus, had bankrolled Isaac since he bought RKO Pictures from Howard Hughes in 1955; RKO became Hunt Studios three years later.

“Who’d have thought there was any more mileage left in Psycho?” said Ben, trying not to look guilty: he had rejected the Mrs Bates script two years ago.

A retelling of the early life of Norman Bates from his mother’s viewpoint, Mrs Bates had last night taken Best Actress, aptly enough, for Kathy Bates, Best Actor for Edward Norton, along with – 24-carat box-office gold – Best Picture for Gorgon and Best Director for Rodney Fire. Gorgon Pictures and Hunt Studios, arch rivals, were the last of the major Independents. And Rodney “Hot Rod” Fire had begun his career directing the drive-in teen-flicks – Pubescent Sex and Stalk-’n’-Slash – that remained Hunt’s bread and butter; his winning Oscars for Zola Gorgon was tantamount to patricide. Isaac tried to change the subject.

“Marilyn looked good,” he said. “Has she been You-Know-Where again?”

“I guess,” Ben replied.

Marilyn Monroe had presented Ms Bates with her Oscar for Mrs Bates. You-Know-Where was the Betty Ford Clinic, where Marilyn spent more time than she did with her fourth husband. (“Wouldn’t we all,” über-bitch DeeDee Delfein had written in her column in the LA Times, “if we’d been married to Henry Kissinger for 35 years?”) Marilyn had cameo’d in The Big One, catapulted off a balcony of the Trump Tower in Century City during the first warning tremor. (“James Cameron gets to do what every other director’s been wanting to do for 45 years,” Rex Reed had written in the New Yorker.)

“Dean looked terrible,” Isaac went on in the same vein. “How come he isn’t dead?”

“People don’t die from AIDS like they used to,” Ben reminded him.

James Dean’s HIV status, already a rumour in the mansions of Beverly Hills and the bars on Sunset, had been confirmed in print by DeeDee Delfein ten years back. His invitation to present Rodney Fire with the Best Director award last night had been described by Ben in a whispered aside to the starlet he was escorting as “a mercy fuck from the Academy”. The figure who’d tottered onto the stage of the Shrine Auditorium and could barely lift “Hot Rod”’s statuette was a spectral shadow of the burly man last seen on screen as Benito Mussolini four years ago and yet an eerie echo of the scrawny star of Shane and The Blackboard Jungle.

“He should’ve died young,” Isaac said. “Imagine if he was only remembered for his first three or four movies like Brando.”

“But then we’d have missed him as Vito Corleone and Kurtz.”

Isaac grinned. Like all affluent Americans from 14 to 80, he had awesomely perfect teeth. “Yeah, but we could have done without Candy and Columbus.”

The funeral director thumped a hand on the arm of his peach-colored leather chair. “Jesus H. Christ, Isaac, I didn’t mention Mrs Bates so you two could reminisce about Marilyn and James fucking Dean. You made – was it five horror movies last year?” Isaac nodded. “Three of which went straight to video?” Isaac nodded again.

“None of ’em cost more than peanuts,” he pointed out.

“None of them made more than peanuts,” Titus retorted. “And Rodney Fire, who but for you might still be directing condom commercials, goes to Gorgon with Mrs Bates which makes millions and now sweeps the fucking board at the Oscars.”

“It wouldn’t have made millions if he’d come to us and made it with Dolores,” Ben got in. Even Titus had to laugh at that. Titus’s teeth, uncapped, were yellowing tombstones set at uneven angles in his broad graveyard of a mouth.

Contract players were an extinct species. Dolores Delano was the only star still under contract to Hunts. Discovered by Isaac in the mid-’70s, Dolores had reminded him of the young Bette Davis, every frame of whose early movies he recalled and cherished. (Sadly, Miss Davis never made a Hunt movie).

Even at 20 Dolores wasn’t a great beauty but she’d possessed an angularity of features and an energy of movement that set her apart from other more sultry Latin actresses and, Isaac convinced himself, gave her the potential of his idol. She couldn’t act and never would, but then that hadn’t handicapped an earlier Mexicana, Lupe Velez, now remembered less for her movies than for her five-year marriage to Johnny Weissmuller and the comic tragedy of her suicide (head down a toilet bowl). Dolores was working the Strip when Isaac discovered her and screwed her (or, in strict chronology, screwed her and discovered her), sent her to acting school and then launched her in Lady From Mexico with John Belushi, the first of three comedies updating the Lupe Velez Mexican Spitfire series from the 1940s.

Dolores’s looks, such as they were, had peaked early. Three facelifts and four boob-jobs had only offset a proportion of the ravages of time, pills and booze. At her present rate of decline she would soon resemble Isaac’s idol as Baby Jane Hudson. Four years ago, sentimental after a pitcher of martinis and a blowjob on her terrace overlooking Coldwater Canyon, Isaac had given her another seven-year contract. In Myra Mae Grant she had a shark-like agent who never let any Hunt Studios part for which she was remotely suitable slip past her number-one client. Isaac’s current mistress, second-rank opera diva Graziella Prato, was perfect for the Jeanette McDonald role in San Francisco but Myra Mae had threatened a lawsuit if he didn’t offer the part to Dolores. (All Graziella got to contribute was dubbing Dolores in a couple of arias, and he’d had to set Myra Mae up on a hot date with a burly black studio carpenter before she even agreed to a vocal credit for his paramour.)

“We got Liam Neeson,” Titus said. “We might have gotten Kathy Bates.” He turned his half-frame glasses towards Ben. “Didn’t you get to see the script?”

Ben gulped. “D’you think I’d pass up a script like that?” But Titus had already turned back to Isaac.

“Well, you got it about right. Hunt Studios is headed for the toilet.” Isaac looked grim, but it was Ben who spoke, a whine entering his voice:

“We just need one decent hit to turn us around.” If Hunt Studios went down the crapper, Ben’s career went with it. “Maybe we’ll get lucky with Ra-” he broke off just in time as Isaac hissed a warning – “with ‘Waterbabies’,” he finished instead.

Like stage actors in regard to Shakespeare’s “Scottish play”, Isaac had a superstition. Once a film was in the can, he would not allow its title to be mentioned in his presence until it was in theatres. He wouldn’t even appear on talk shows until after the opening, by which time lately he’d been trying to talk turkeys into lame ducks.

Hence “Windbag” for Lady Van-de-Meer’s Wind.

San Francisco had been “The Big Bouncy” during the six months it took to edit in the digital quakes after filming ended. The gay-themed British costume-drama awaiting release by Hunt next month was “The Prancing Queers”, a joke lifted by Isaac from the Ivor Novello era. “Waterbabies” was Ray, which Ben had pitched to Isaac and Titus 18 months ago as “epic horror: Jaws meets Titanic”.

“How sure are you this won’t be a 91-point-4 million Waterworld?” Titus now said, a bit late in the day. He had forced a tighter budget on “Ray”. At this invitation to misfortune Isaac’s bowels churned. He bit back a grunt of pain.

“From your mouth to Lucifer’s asshole,” he said quickly.

“I think you can expect a nice return on your 91-point-4,” Ben told Titus, wishing he felt as confident as he was trying to sound.

“What else is in the pipeline?” Titus persisted.

“You’ve seen the predicted returns for our new releases and you know Isaac hates to talk about –”

“Yeah, yeah, but let’s get beyond this year’s crop of likely clunkers –” he raised his voice as Isaac now audibly gasped – “and talk about next year. If there is a next year.”

This last statement sent a double bolt of such searing agony to Isaac’s heart and guts that he almost fainted.

“Come on, Titus,” he begged in a feeble voice. Titus looked at him with a comfortless expression.

“Isaac, we need to face facts. When you lose 88-point-6 million dollars with a mega-flop like San Francisco, those are my dollars you’re losing.”
Titus could always remember how much a movie had cost – and lost - down to the last dime. “Nunns Inc. isn’t a bottomless well, as you both know.”

In point of fact neither Ben nor Isaac knew the depth of the Nunns Inc. well. There had long been rumours about Titus’s bank being a laundry for the Italians, the South Americans, now even for the Russians and the Triads. Isaac never asked how the water got into the well. Getting it out was what mattered.

Ignoring the pain in his vitals, Isaac mustered his full $44,000 cosmetic smile.

“Come on, Titus, you’ve kept faith with me for forty-five years. Keep faith with me now. I’m gonna turn this situation round. We’ll claw some more back on San Francisco. Look how they loved it in Japan.” (For some reason, perhaps Graziella’s singing which reminded older Western music critics of Deanna Durbin, San Francisco had outperformed The Big One in the Far East.) “And I’ll re-release Windbag and get Joanie on some talk shows with her Oscar.” (Dame Joan, bless, could – and would – go on TV to promote anything from polyester swimwear to a new interpretation of the Torah.) “And please God we’ll have a better year this year.”

He barely paused to draw breath. “But I agree with you, we need something big for next year.”

“Not big in the budget area,” Titus cautioned.

“OK, big but not too big. Medium-sized budget. One or two big stars.”

“No big stars.”

“Titus, I can’t deliver a hit with no money and no stars.”

“It’s been done,” Ben contributed. “Look at Blair Witch.”

“Let’s don’t look at Blair Witch,” said Isaac. Zola Gorgon had distributed The Blair Witch Project and then produced a sequel and prequel.

“Make a not-too-big movie with not-too-big stars,” Titus instructed them. “Find somebody new off of television. Who was the boy with Liz Hurley in that cowboy pilot?” Titus had a soft spot for westerns and a hard one for Liz Hurley.

“Jason Howl?” said Ben, who’d scripted the pilot for Hunt TV. “OK, he’s got looks, but Richard Gere he isn’t. And the critics really pissed on The Man from Nowhere.”

“Piss on the critics,” said Isaac, a sentiment shared by everyone in movies.

“It doesn’t have to be this Howl kid,” Titus said. “Just somebody like him. Somebody cheap.”

There was a moment of silence. Isaac looked glumly at Ben. Ben looked glumly at Isaac. Neither of them looked at Titus.

“We could try another remake,” Ben suggested tentatively. Titus snorted.

“After San Francisco, you want to make another remake?”

“Not a disaster movie.”

“Anything you do is a disaster,” said Titus: unkind and painfully true. Isaac massaged his stomach and his battered ego. Ben’s expression faltered but he soldiered on:

“We could remake a real classic. Look at all those Jane Austens the Brits have done. We could remake Wuthering Heights.” Hard to believe Ben had a degree in English Literature from UCLA.

“Something modern, for Christ’s sake,” Titus groaned. “Get the kids into the theatres. Maybe you should just stick to schlock. It’s what you do best.”

“How about we take a classic and bring it into the modern era, like – a rap version of Julius Caesar in the gangland ghettos?” Ben was getting fired up.

“Does it have to be Shakespeare?” Isaac struggled out of his pain and depression. “Couldn’t we remake something from the 40s or 50s - something with class – and bring it up-to-date?” Isaac’s era, the era of the divine Davis and the almost-as-divine Crawford and Stanwyck and Kate Hepburn.

“You want to remake Mildred Pierce?” Titus was on Isaac’s wavelength but his tone was not encouraging. “You think that has something to say to today’s kids?”

“We remade Stella Dallas in 1990 with Dolores. Stole it right from under Touchstone’s nose. They were gonna do it with – what’s her name? – Bette Midler.”

“She had a lucky escape,” said Ben, who’d started to work for Hunt in 1991. “It was a piece of shit.” Ben didn’t share Isaac’s sentimentality for Hollywood’s Great Era of Schmaltz.

“Actually, a classic weepie might be a good idea,” Titus said thoughtfully. “But it has to be brought bang up to date. I suppose you’ll write it?”

“Of course Ben will,” Isaac said magnanimously. He forced himself more upright and launched into “pitch” mode: “Hunt Studios presents –” he racked his brains for a title, any title: inspiration obligingly struck – “Sunset Boulevard.” (Hardly a weepie, thought Ben.) “Screenplay by Ben Burns.” (Goodbye, Messrs Wilder, Brackett & Marshman: Ben knew his screen-writers.) “Starring, as a Norma Desmond for the 21st century –” he paused, all showman now, building up the suspense and his audience’s expectations – “the Star of Stars: Dolores Delano!”

Even Ben had to admit it was inspired casting. Any resemblance Dolores may have had to the young Bette Davis was definitely giving way to the older Gloria Swanson. Nevertheless it was a no-no.

“Not Sunset Boulevard, Isaac. Tarantino’s filming the musical. They say he’s talking to Madonna and fighting off Minnelli and Streisand.”

“And nothing with Dolores,” said Titus. “Please. I’ll give you some more money.”

“Weepies need stars,” Ben said. “Big stars. Imagine Gone with the Wind without Jean Simmons. Imagine Casablanca without Ronnie Reagan. Now there’s a thought. We could remake Casablanca with –“he forced himself to keep a straight face –“Dustin Hoffman and Julia Roberts.”

“No, no,” Isaac returned, equally po-faced: “with Michael Douglas and Demi Moore.”

Ben grinned. “Dennis Hopper and Sandra Bullock.”

Isaac’s expression remained frozen. This was a favourite Hollywood game. “Don’t forget what Titus said: we’ve got to get the kids in. It’ll have to be Mark Wahlberg and Charlize Theron.”

Ben smaned. “Maybe we ought to change the ethnic base … Will Smith and Jennifer Lopez.”

Isaac cracked and erupted into laughter. Titus forced a thin smile. In LA, as elsewhere, Money Men are not renowned for their sense of humor. Titus would put up the cash for any movie with any cast if the actors could be signed for a reasonable fee. He threw cold water over the other two:

“You’re supposed to be deciding on a for-real movie. This daydreaming is getting us nowhere.”

Ben sighed. “Nowhere’s the only place left to go. Why wish for the moon when we already don’t have the stars.”

Ignoring the effect of sudden movement on his tormented bowels Isaac leapt to his feet and punched the air like a kid at a baseball game.

“Hallelujah!” he cried. His long-dead Brooklyn parents would never have expected the word to escape his lips.

It was an epiphany. In that moment was sealed the fate not only of Hunt Studios, of Isaac and Ben, but also of struggling TV actor Jason Howl and Kate Kane, “the Beaver Queen”.

*********************************

TRAILER for HOWL AND THE PUSSY-KAT.2

Chapter Two: SOAP-STUD introduces JASON HOWL, a kid from Wyoming with a small talent and a big dick - and a future whose size is yet to be determined.
* * *
If you go to www.shaikh-down.com you can read EXTRACTS from my one published novel SHAIKH-DOWN, a tale of sex and revolution (and Armageddon) on an island in the Persian Gulf.