I gesture to the large screen with theCrackedlogo behind me.
“Or stories born purely from imagination. Storytelling is sacred. Story must be protected, at all costs. Sometimes at personal cost, so when it became apparent my involvement with that project could potentially compromise the story, I bowed out.”
Railroadedis a more accurate description for how Camille leveraged her mega-star status to get me off the project. The movie being butchered by the new director and the rotten tomatoes hurled at the film did little to soothe that wound. I didn’t need the movie’s failure to vindicate me. I knew I should not have mixed it up with Camille. Not even great pussy is worth a wasted opportunity.
But it’s hard to call anything “wasted” when you learn your lesson this well.
“You looked like you were two seconds off jacking redhead up.”
Monk’s comment makes me grin, but I’m too focused on my crab cake to speak. After all that craving for steak, P.J. Clarke’s crab cake turned me.
“I mean, itdidtake balls to ask.” Monk winks and takes a bite of his steak.
“Punk ass is lucky he’s still got ’em.” I wipe my mouth and toss the napkin onto the table. “He’s gotta know I don’t talk about that shit.”
“You’ve barely talked to me aboutPrimal, much less a roomful of strangers, so I thought you not strangling him on the spot was damn near commendable.”
“Hmmm.” I offer a grunt in case Monk gets it in his head that I want to discuss this further. I do not.Primalis a sore spot. I’ve built my career and reputation on thoughtful, groundbreaking documentaries. When I direct features, it’s because the material grips my imagination and incites my convictions.Primalis a reminder that I strayed from that once and paid in pride. I wasn’t lying up there. Storytelling is sacred to me. Jeopardizing my integrity as a storyteller for a woman?
Won’t happen again.
“I get the message,” Monk says, taking a sip of his beer. “You don’t want to talk aboutPrimal, so let’s talk about your next movie. I know you’re into that.”
I glance up from my plate and nod. I believe in economy of words. Talking too much usually means saying things I didn’t want to or shouldn’t have.
“I’ve got a million ideas about the score,” he continues, not waiting for me to speak.
Wright “Monk” Bellamy is one of the best musicians I’ve ever met. He plays several instruments, but piano is what he’s best known for. His obsession with Thelonious Monk gained him the moniker, and his towering skill as a pianist backs it up. He’s that rare classically trained beast who can seamlessly cross into pop, contemporary, jazz. You name the genre. He can probably hang.
“So youarefree to work on the movie?” I take a sip of my Macallan. I didn’t realize how anxious I was about the documentary’s reception until that standing O. Most of the tension drained out of me after that. This drink is handling what’s left.
“I can shuffle a few things.” Monk’s dark eyes twinkle with humor. “For the right price.”
He’s as intense as I am, but he disguises it with a laid-back persona and good-natured smile. I don’t care enough to disguise anything. You get what you get.
“We got budget,” I mutter. “This time. I hope I don’t regret letting Evan convince me to do this with Galaxy Studios.”
“It’s a period piece. And a huge one at that. Considering the costuming, production, scope of this thing, it ain’t gonna be cheap. Evan was right to go the studio route.”
“I’m sure he’ll be pleased to hear it. Though if there’s one thing you never have to tell Evan, it’s that he’s right.”
My production partner, Evan Bancroft, deserves a lot of credit for our success. He “indulges” me my documentaries, and makes the films between count, ensuring the movies we do make us a lot of money. The guy’s too smart to be poor. Not that he’s ever been. Evan grew up in the business with a screenwriter for a mother and a cinematographer for a father. He bleeds film.
“Still no closer to finding your star?” Monk asks.
I put the drink down and lean back in my chair, watching Lincoln Center glow through the window as the first layer of darkness blankets the city. Finding a great story is only the first hurdle. Getting the money to make it? That’s another. Casting the right actors—one of the most important steps in the dozens you take to make or ruin a film.
“I’ll know her when I see her,” I tell him.
“How many have you seen so far? A hundred?”
“The studio put out this huge casting call that’s been a joke. I like to be a lot more precise than this. It’s a waste of time and money, if you ask me, but they didn’t. They just started looking at all these actresses who are totally wrong for the role.”
“Well, in their defense, you have been searching for six months without one callback, so they’re probably just trying to help this baby along.”
“But it’smybaby.” I glare at the passersby on the street like they’re thesuits safely ensconced in their Beverly Hills homes. “I found this story in the middle of nowhere. They have no idea what it will take to make it what it should be. All I want is their money, not their ideas.”
“Silly them, thinking they should have some say about how their money is spent.”
