consider taking a look at the script. I’d never get tangled up with a family of powerful men who had control over Laura’s future.
He let out a sigh. “I thought you should know, before you meet my father.”
“Thank you for that.”
Todd stared at my unbuttoned dinner jacket.
A nickel-sized spot of Eric’s blood marred my white shirt. I buttoned the jacket, covering the stain.
“Please keep an open mind. At least hear my old man out before you say no.”
The smell of leather and the stench of cigar smoke greeted me as we entered. Hardly what I expected from a man with heart troubles. Christine, Roland, and Laura, the movie’s three stars, sat on a long camel-hair couch. Did I have any chance of saving Laura’s career after beating up the studio head’s son?
Norman Carville, legendary Hollywood pioneer, sat behind a massive oak desk reading an L.A.
Times
. He appeared thinner than in newspaper photos I’d seen over the past few years. His steely dark eyes, however, were sharper than those of men half his age. He had a raspy voice, perhaps from shouting orders all his life, and spoke to no one in particular. “Listen to this: Roosevelt was asked about the lingering effects of the Depression. He said, ‘As long as the country has Shirley Temple, we will be all right.’ ”
The old man slammed the newspaper to the desktop and rattled off a cough. He held his open palm toward a chair in front of the desk. The sun-aged skin on his hand was wrinkled like a crumpled-up paper sack, as if he’d spent much of his life outdoors rather than inside a studio.
I thanked him and sat, trying not to get too comfortable. I risked a glance at Laura, who smiled and didn’t appear to know I’d bloodied Eric Carville’s face. I sensed none of them did, which might be an advantage with the old man.
“Where’s Eric?” he asked.
Todd ran a hand over his chin. “Freshening up.”
Norman picked up a decanter from his desk. “Scotch, Mr. Donovan?”
“Yes, thanks, Mr. Carville.” I definitely needed a drink, and all I’d had was champagne.
“Norman.” He poured a drink and set the glass in front of me. He filled another for himself and leaned back in his chair made of leather that looked as soft as a puppy’s belly.
Todd snatched his father’s booze. “The doctor was very clear about alcohol and cigars.”
Norman picked up a smoldering cigar from a large brass ashtray and puffed away. As the smoke curled toward the ceiling, he punched the air with the stogie. “You strike me as a cut-to-the-chase kind of guy, am I right?”
I answered with a gulp of scotch, enjoying the warmth that spread through me.
He kept the cigar in his hand. “This studio needs your help in a big way. We’d like you to review the
Midnight Wedding
screenplay and see if you can make the dialogue work better.”
Laura twisted her hands together as if trying to keep her emotions in check.
Roland stared into the corner, apparently trying to understand how this might affect him. Christine looked positively giddy.
“I’m flattered, Mr. Carville, but—”
“You’re a talented writer, son. I’ve seen plenty in my years to know.”
“With all due respect, novel writing is different from screenplays.”
“Nonsense. Writing’s writing. The differences are format. Novels, like movies, are a collection of scenes. Characters face challenges and grow or fail. The plot is propelled by conflict and dialogue, and what this script needs most is better dialogue, snappy repartee like in your books.” He pounded the desk. “It’s a goddamn comedy. I want an audience to laugh out loud, not smile.”
How could I talk my way out of getting involved in Laura’s movie without making things tougher for her than I already had? “I’m flattered and honored by your interest, but I think you underestimate the complexity of what you’re asking a novelist to do.”
“Complexity? Who said it was easy? Look, writers are flocking to Hollywood
He let out a sigh. “I thought you should know, before you meet my father.”
“Thank you for that.”
Todd stared at my unbuttoned dinner jacket.
A nickel-sized spot of Eric’s blood marred my white shirt. I buttoned the jacket, covering the stain.
“Please keep an open mind. At least hear my old man out before you say no.”
The smell of leather and the stench of cigar smoke greeted me as we entered. Hardly what I expected from a man with heart troubles. Christine, Roland, and Laura, the movie’s three stars, sat on a long camel-hair couch. Did I have any chance of saving Laura’s career after beating up the studio head’s son?
Norman Carville, legendary Hollywood pioneer, sat behind a massive oak desk reading an L.A.
Times
. He appeared thinner than in newspaper photos I’d seen over the past few years. His steely dark eyes, however, were sharper than those of men half his age. He had a raspy voice, perhaps from shouting orders all his life, and spoke to no one in particular. “Listen to this: Roosevelt was asked about the lingering effects of the Depression. He said, ‘As long as the country has Shirley Temple, we will be all right.’ ”
The old man slammed the newspaper to the desktop and rattled off a cough. He held his open palm toward a chair in front of the desk. The sun-aged skin on his hand was wrinkled like a crumpled-up paper sack, as if he’d spent much of his life outdoors rather than inside a studio.
I thanked him and sat, trying not to get too comfortable. I risked a glance at Laura, who smiled and didn’t appear to know I’d bloodied Eric Carville’s face. I sensed none of them did, which might be an advantage with the old man.
“Where’s Eric?” he asked.
Todd ran a hand over his chin. “Freshening up.”
Norman picked up a decanter from his desk. “Scotch, Mr. Donovan?”
“Yes, thanks, Mr. Carville.” I definitely needed a drink, and all I’d had was champagne.
“Norman.” He poured a drink and set the glass in front of me. He filled another for himself and leaned back in his chair made of leather that looked as soft as a puppy’s belly.
Todd snatched his father’s booze. “The doctor was very clear about alcohol and cigars.”
Norman picked up a smoldering cigar from a large brass ashtray and puffed away. As the smoke curled toward the ceiling, he punched the air with the stogie. “You strike me as a cut-to-the-chase kind of guy, am I right?”
I answered with a gulp of scotch, enjoying the warmth that spread through me.
He kept the cigar in his hand. “This studio needs your help in a big way. We’d like you to review the
Midnight Wedding
screenplay and see if you can make the dialogue work better.”
Laura twisted her hands together as if trying to keep her emotions in check.
Roland stared into the corner, apparently trying to understand how this might affect him. Christine looked positively giddy.
“I’m flattered, Mr. Carville, but—”
“You’re a talented writer, son. I’ve seen plenty in my years to know.”
“With all due respect, novel writing is different from screenplays.”
“Nonsense. Writing’s writing. The differences are format. Novels, like movies, are a collection of scenes. Characters face challenges and grow or fail. The plot is propelled by conflict and dialogue, and what this script needs most is better dialogue, snappy repartee like in your books.” He pounded the desk. “It’s a goddamn comedy. I want an audience to laugh out loud, not smile.”
How could I talk my way out of getting involved in Laura’s movie without making things tougher for her than I already had? “I’m flattered and honored by your interest, but I think you underestimate the complexity of what you’re asking a novelist to do.”
“Complexity? Who said it was easy? Look, writers are flocking to Hollywood
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