Chapter Text
A HOLLYWOOD FANTASY
PART ONE
Certainly he expected failure. A series of failures, more than likely. After all, he had been declared insane by all who knew him—certifiable—for he insisted he was going to fulfill a long-held childhood dream by sending out an “original” movie script written by him to anyone associated with anyone in Hollywood (the machine, not the city)—and this with no agent, no resumé, no experience, no contacts. And he wanted to star in it. And he was fifty-one in three weeks and a day. The entire enterprise was ‘preposterousness’ in dictionary exactitude. Still, Dean McAndrews (“doesn’t that sound like an actor’s name?”) did not expect legal action. What was the adage about what happens when you assume?
He was surprisingly techno-savvy for a man past his midlife delineation: 102 not being an age he was likely to attain. Not in this form. He had wireless everything, every tooth was blue, and he could stream anything from anywhere at anytime. The only high-tech time filler he did not pursue was video games. “When you blow up one two-headed alien, you’ve blown them all.” So his saying went. Should anyone ask. So when a call came through from his lawyer, he unsuspectingly turned down Shadow of a Doubt and answered it.
“Hello.” In his world, people only answered the phone with their last name on TV or poorly written movies where cops miraculously manage to be responsible for the entire five boroughs of New York and still have a family life.
“Dean? You will not believe what I just received in the mail.” A friend who is a lawyer is a useful tool if you plan to take the entertainment field by storm so close to AARP.
“Hate mail?” was his joke of an answer.
“Yes” was the serious reply.
Dean laughed as Frank the lawyer joined in. “From whom?”
“Mark Murphy’s lawyers. It’s a cease and desist order. From a judge with the first name of Cecil. Even the judiciary has movies in the blood. I wonder if anyone in his camp even read it?”
“Doubtful. If they had, they’d have hardly bothered. The chances of it seeing the light of day are slimmer than Linsey Lohan’s breaks between court appearances. How many gay romantic murder mysteries have even been made, much less gone on to win Oscars? Or made a hundred million?”
“Besides every buddy action flick ever made? None that I can recall.”
“What do they think I’m going to do—put out a fucking ad in Variety telling the world he’s considering it? And he’s the only actual straight man left on network television who isn’t a Republican. How could it hurt his career?”
“Stop watching old Hitchcock and read a paper for Christ’s sake…or read The Times online. Murder One got cancelled. And to add to his shame, it was replaced by another cop show. No, it’s not named Murder Two, though it should be. Now he’s no longer a young man. Thirty-six being next to dead for brooding hunks…Tom Selleck excepted. But he has that mustache.”
“Do you have to send something back to them?”
“Do not worry. It’s nothing. We’ll frame it when the fucking picture makes it to the screen.”
“Thanks, and I love you for that, Mother.”
“I’m ten years younger than you and you could at least call me Father. So last year’s drag queen.”
“Anything else of Earth-shattering importance?”
“I can get a better deal on my satellite dish service. Other than that, ‘No’ would have to be my answer. I’ll phone with any further developments. Ooh. That sounds vaguely Joan Crawford-ish.”
“Kisses to Fred. Bye.” He hung up and had another hearty laugh. Then he pulled up his computer on his widescreen plasma. He obviously was reading the wrong parts of The Times. Yep. Tenth year? God, I’m old. Kind of them to let it play out the season. You’d think he’d want a job. Hitchcock was resumed and he let the whole thing rest. But the movie ended, the news was watched, but he could not stop thinking about the arrogance of such a move. What the fuck? Cease and desist what exactly? Harassment by electronic script? He called his sister to report the “development.” He knew she would laugh at the marvelous overreaction along with him. No answer. I’ll call after Wheel of Fortune. Her grandkids were always over for that. He pulled up IMDb (Internet Movie Database) his electronic source for all things Hollywood and even would-be Hollywood. Mark Murphy was one of seven people in the business with that name. Luckily, he was the only actor. Real name John Allen Smith. There’s a joke in there somewhere. One TV movie in post-production. One movie in pre-production. And some pilots that will be the same as the first show. Or maybe he’ll play a brooding lawyer. Senior partner this time. Fuck him.
A call to Deb: “Finished watching Vanna White clap for people who choose stupid letters like Q?”
“The kids didn’t even come over. I’m going through withdrawals.”
He made dinner as he talked—hands-free naturally. “Guess which psychotic brother of yours is such a Hollywood threat, he is now being sued?”
“Randy Quaid?”
“You are old and heartless.”
They both chuckled. “What is that whacking sound? And who is suing you and why would they do such a stupid thing?”
“A meat tenderizer—yes, I still use it but not on anyone anymore. And Mark Murphy and his lawyers. They seem to equate sending him a script with harassment. God, I forgot to ask Frank if it was sexual harassment.” He gave the beef one more good whop.
“Bob, could you turn down NCIS a little bit? I can hear Michael Weatherly overacting from here. Sorry. God, you’d think with a show going down the tubes, he’d want a fucking job!”
He had moved on to chopping onions. “I thought the same thing. We do have Wonder Twin powers.”
“We’re not twins.”
“Vulcan mind meld…by telepathy?”
“No Star Trek references. I get enough of that from Bob. He has the kids putting the right names with the right episodes now. Shaina is trying to perfect a Scottish accent. And what is that new horrible sound?”
“Chopping. I’m preparing, just in case the Mamarenek Players revive Sweeney Todd.”
“You’re a tenor. The best you would do is Mrs. Lovett.”
“That is unfair. I could also be The Beggar Woman.”
“You are a scary influence on the kids. As if Star Trek wasn’t bad enough. Shaina and Jesse can now sing ‘The Worst Pies in London.’ From memory. They are four and seven. If John could talk, I’m sure he’d be singing along with them.”
“You do realize you never actually call them ‘grandkids’?”
“And you’re a cruel bastard for saying so. I’m still younger than you.”
“Just for that, I’m telling Bob you now have to watch every hour of NCIS, even the reruns on USA. I’m chopping heads as we speak. Maybe I’ll send Murphy a meat clever, get the FBI involved. Tell Bob ‘Live long and prosper.’”
“The hell I will! Bye Big Bro.”
“Bye Sweetie.”
A call to Jamey, friend for life. You’re forty-seven. You’d think you’d go by Jim already. “Guess who’s the newest almost jailbird on the très hip Hollywood movie scene?”
“Mel Gibson? Oh, wait. He was the old one.”
“Far more relevant than Melvin.”
“I don’t think his name is Melvin. Queen Malevolent maybe. And I already know. Frank told me.”
“That little fucker! How dare he trump my big news! How often do I have big news?”
“Never. That’s why he couldn’t wait. Maybe Nancy Grace will condemn you before she’s even read the letter.”
“That would make me an instant star. We should send it to her. Wait, my timer went off.”
“You’re making dinner while we talk? What, you couldn’t call me in half an hour?”
“I guess Frank and I have the same compulsion. I couldn’t wait either. I’m just pulling the rolls out of the oven.”
“My friend…only you make rolls from scratch. I’m betting Bobby Flay just pops the tube.”
“Jealous. Hate you for trumping my ace. Love you for everything else. I’ll call when I get the next one. Or I formally make the gossip columns. Ta.”
And then the idea was planted in his head. How I would love to print a giant ad with the nasty letter quoted in full. I’m sure the legalese makes it sound even nastier. Hm. Variety. Nah. Blog? No! Column? Gossip column? Barry Benno. Would he even print it? He certainly loves putting a jerk in his place. Without names maybe? I’ll call Frank back and ask him about the ramifications. But he didn’t, and a month flew by and the lawyer’s letter was relegated to the part of the brain where old recipes go to die. Until a commercial for The Squad (Murder Two) came on CBS. Then Dean McAndrews called Frank. Then he wrote Barry Benno.
Part of him expected another ‘cease and desist’ letter from the downtown / hipster / antiestablishment establishment weekly known as The Rag. Most of Benno’s columns were about happenings around town, mostly with a gay tint, with only an occasional interview…or nasty tidbit from some asshole who did not treat him with the respect a man who’s been doing his job for thirty years should expect. He certainly never let an opportunity to mock Scientology pass him by. An obvious, though highly worthy, target for comic abuse. Naturally, Mel Gibson always had something shoved up his ass (being a puppet and all) when something wasn’t spilling out of it. And he HATED (his caps) Russell Crowe and threatened to throw a phone at anyone who stopped him from getting a free drink or an hors’ d’oerve. Besides, Naomi got there first. Of course, Benno only has a tiny cell phone…
Dean had been very specific in his e-mail. Under no circumstances could his name be used and no full descriptions of the actual script, other than to say the two main characters are gay, they have a naked sex scene, and kissing is sprinkled liberally throughout. He didn’t want this to be viewed as a publicity stunt. Yes, it might get him noticed, but his pride wanted the work to get all the attention, not his name attached to some whine-tinged, petty name-dropping. Still, a little fun-spiteful jest would be a delicious party warmer (at the few parties he was asked to attend… another downside to being on the downside of life.) And the big guy seemed to be asking for it. Why didn’t he just ignore the fucking thing? How would I ever know what you thought about it? Disappointment set in fairly quickly, when his e-mail went unacknowledged and weeks passed again, and The Rag “ragged” on everyone but Murphy. Then a copy of the script made it to Benno—Dean would never know how—and an e-mail scattered among the official “don’t bother us unless you have an agent” messages he was deleting with a vengeance asked him to set up a phone interview at his earliest convenience. He wasn’t even sure Benno sent it. Maybe a flunky was responsible for minor details such as this. He crushed his coffee beans—a Turkish/Columbian/ Guatamalan/New Mexico blend—and thought about it as he sipped. Would the flunky give Benno the message. Will I sit here waiting by the phone like Doris Day? Do I really want to do this? Of course! You’d love a phone interview. You sent him the Goddamned thing! So he e-mailed his confirmation and within a day, Dean McAndrews was chatting with a long favored writer as if they were old friends.
“So…what’s a man like you doing with a script like this?”
“You mean a man my age…”
The familiar Benno laugh made him smile. “Dearest, I’m older than you! I meant a man who has never been eaten slowly then quickly spit out by the dream that is show biz fame.”
“I got rich so I thought I could pay for some of it. Be one of the multitude of producers. The financial holdings of long dead parents helped a bit. A lotta bit. Thank you, Daddy. And old age seemed too close for comfort and I had this script I wrote without knowing why I wrote it, and it had a marvelous part that I was destined to play—writing your own script will do that for you—and the rest is, well, not history, but silence.”
“Does that mean you’ve died your hair blond like Olivier?”
“No, and I didn’t grow a beard to look like a yeti as did the Asshole Who Shall Not Be Named.”
The laugh made a second appearance. “Honey, I always name names. And I wanna name Murphy. I’ve checked with every man, woman, and quadriplegic in our legal department, and they say as long as the copy of the letter is legit, I can say what ever the fuck I want. Are you sure you don’t want a mention? It’s a great story: talented but untried writer / performer craves the lights of Hollywood at the age most actors are making car commercials.”
Now it was Dean’s turn to laugh. “Talented? Does that mean you’ve read the script? Or you haven’t?”
“Seriously, I would love to see it. And if you can’t act, are grossly overweight, or look like Ernest Borgnine, I’ll still see it. Can you act, are you grossly overweight or do you look like Ernest Borgnine?”
“I think so, pudgy middle but have a trainer and a nutritionist, and I feel for the poor homely man, but thank the stars above, I do not look quite that…real.”
“Diplomacy. Rule Number One in the movie business.”
“What’s Number Two?”
“Wear clean black briefs to any visit to a producer’s office. They might make an unscheduled appearance. So I have your blessing to go ahead?”
“Write away…and fuck him if he can’t take a joke.”
“Look for it Wednesday.”
Wednesday rolled around and the column was up; friends from around the country called to join him in laughing at the cockeyed absurdity, since the story of his intended climb that is the Everest of show biz was hardly a secret on this grapevine. He enjoyed being the center of attention for a couple of days, and thought he might be lucky enough to get another legal document to hang beside the first. He fell asleep imagining Mark Murphy having late night conference calls with his staff of crouching minions—plus the entire O.J. Simpson Dream Team. He awoke early, rested, happy, calm. And then the fallout hit.
Benno’s column went up—and out—detailing the ludicrous legal fight Murphy was willing to put up to keep his name away from a movie with gay lovers as main characters in it. ‘What does he not want the world to know? What he actually thinks of gay people? That he’s afraid to kiss another man, just in case he gets cooties? Doesn’t everyone in Hollywood already have them?’ The rest of the column dealt with local fetes of one kind or another and only one more tiny jab ended the thing…’Now that Murder One is no more, should we expect to see him with a puppet on his hand next? Or directing Passion of the Christ 2: the Return of the Murdering Jews?’ Within an hour, The Rag was flooded with calls, texts, e-mails, even two faxes—most wanting to know more about the script, the writer, the legal action, and any other tidbits of information that might satisfy public curiosity. Hundreds of people responded online with laughter for the overreaction of ‘Team Murphy’, though some came to the popular actor’s rescue, spewing vitriol as they claimed they would also sue any f***** who would dare send them a movie full of debaucheries like gay kissing and sodomy. A few even called Dean a socialist pedophile, since in their twisted minds, gay men were all after the children of the world...and free enterprise. His friends called him again, but he didn’t answer them right away. Something about the whole affair was making him slightly queasy. This is all much ado about nothing. Surely. But is this just the tip of the iceberg? Or is this nothing more than my ego’s wishful thinking? A small portion of time would provide him with the incontrovertible answer to his semi-worried question: yes, Dean McAndrews, this was just the tip.