got more talent in your little finger than a hundred Norman Lears or Bochcos or … who’s that damn heroin addict that did that Miami thing with Don Johnson …?”
“Michael Mann. ‘Miami Vice.’ He’s not a heroin addict. He wrote about drugs.”
“Good-looking show. Great production values. But what are the damn characters saying to each other? Too esoteric. That’s what I like about what you’re trying for with your stuff.” He played with the salt shaker, screwing, unscrewing. “You’re never afraid of your own voice. You know, you were always a fearful boy … afraid to confront, afraid of so many things. It’s good you don’t do that in your work.”
Burt tried to remember, face doing a quiet flashback. “Maybe your fear early on … I don’t know … maybe it’s because of Mom. Guilt, maybe? Possible, I suppose.”
Alan didn’t like the way his father’s thoughts were facing; didn’t want to be in another plane crash together.
“Dad, it’s your birthday remember? We didn’t climb fifty miles above the earth’s surface to discuss what I do for a living, or what happened to Mom. Maybe I should give you your present.”
“What is it?”
“A blue sweater.”
“Great idea!”
“Should be. You’ve been asking me for seven months.” He mocked Burt’s low voice. “I want a blue sweater. Hey, I’d love a blue sweater. Know what I don’t have? A—”
“Okay, okay.” When Burt laughed, he was handsome the way Newman was. He sipped some cappuccino and lit his pipe. A cloud of Chart Well lounged between them.
“So … how’s the new place in Malibu where the people were murdered in cold blood?”
Alan chuckled, patiently.
“Tell you what, I’d rather talk about my career and get lectured than answer questions about my house.”
Burt’s eyes twinkled; an opening blade on a pocket-knife.
“I got a question for you. You think television is real?”
“Real?
”
“In your mind? Does it really exist? Or is it a lot of craft, however heartfelt?”
Alan was right. Dad was moving in for the kill.
“You mean, of course, like the stage has heart and soul? Something like that?”
Burt said nothing but it was clearly something like that. Alan went back to his julienne fries, holding their yellow heads under ketchup. Burt kept puffing, thinking.
“I don’t know too many writers … true writers … who wouldn’t agree the stage has more life. I mean, shit, Alan … it’s right up there, pumping away like crazy. Reaching out. Grabbing you by the ears and saying ‘hey,motherfucker, I’m
here.
I
exist.
And I will leave you a different person when you leave this theater.’ ”
Alan felt his stomach tightening.
“And television is what? Some … I don’t know … mindless contrivance that just sands corners till you can’t feel them?”
“Can you feel them? I can’t.”
“Dad, with all due respect, you’re full of it. Maybe it’s time for the blue sweater portion of the show?”
Burt wasn’t interested.
“How about we go for a walk, then?”
“Just let me finish the point.” Burt sat higher; passionate. “C’mon, let’s face it, in TV they sweeten the audience reaction with laugh tracks. They hose migraine music all over sequences that don’t work. Actors are picked by demographics.
Demographics.
You know what that means?”
Alan knew.
“It means,” explained Burt, “a goddamned computer picks ’em for you. ‘TV-Q.’ Now if that’s soul …” He was tamping the pipe, slowly shaking his head.
Alan realized he was going to have to fight back if this meal wasn’t going to turn into the lunch from hell. “And you didn’t think about audience reaction when you directed a Plummer or a Preston? Elizabeth Ashley? Pacino? Gimme a break. What you’re saying is supercilious and condescending.”
“Do you
have
to use such big words?” Burt was smiling.
Alan hated it when his father teased him but continued. “Listen,
“Michael Mann. ‘Miami Vice.’ He’s not a heroin addict. He wrote about drugs.”
“Good-looking show. Great production values. But what are the damn characters saying to each other? Too esoteric. That’s what I like about what you’re trying for with your stuff.” He played with the salt shaker, screwing, unscrewing. “You’re never afraid of your own voice. You know, you were always a fearful boy … afraid to confront, afraid of so many things. It’s good you don’t do that in your work.”
Burt tried to remember, face doing a quiet flashback. “Maybe your fear early on … I don’t know … maybe it’s because of Mom. Guilt, maybe? Possible, I suppose.”
Alan didn’t like the way his father’s thoughts were facing; didn’t want to be in another plane crash together.
“Dad, it’s your birthday remember? We didn’t climb fifty miles above the earth’s surface to discuss what I do for a living, or what happened to Mom. Maybe I should give you your present.”
“What is it?”
“A blue sweater.”
“Great idea!”
“Should be. You’ve been asking me for seven months.” He mocked Burt’s low voice. “I want a blue sweater. Hey, I’d love a blue sweater. Know what I don’t have? A—”
“Okay, okay.” When Burt laughed, he was handsome the way Newman was. He sipped some cappuccino and lit his pipe. A cloud of Chart Well lounged between them.
“So … how’s the new place in Malibu where the people were murdered in cold blood?”
Alan chuckled, patiently.
“Tell you what, I’d rather talk about my career and get lectured than answer questions about my house.”
Burt’s eyes twinkled; an opening blade on a pocket-knife.
“I got a question for you. You think television is real?”
“Real?
”
“In your mind? Does it really exist? Or is it a lot of craft, however heartfelt?”
Alan was right. Dad was moving in for the kill.
“You mean, of course, like the stage has heart and soul? Something like that?”
Burt said nothing but it was clearly something like that. Alan went back to his julienne fries, holding their yellow heads under ketchup. Burt kept puffing, thinking.
“I don’t know too many writers … true writers … who wouldn’t agree the stage has more life. I mean, shit, Alan … it’s right up there, pumping away like crazy. Reaching out. Grabbing you by the ears and saying ‘hey,motherfucker, I’m
here.
I
exist.
And I will leave you a different person when you leave this theater.’ ”
Alan felt his stomach tightening.
“And television is what? Some … I don’t know … mindless contrivance that just sands corners till you can’t feel them?”
“Can you feel them? I can’t.”
“Dad, with all due respect, you’re full of it. Maybe it’s time for the blue sweater portion of the show?”
Burt wasn’t interested.
“How about we go for a walk, then?”
“Just let me finish the point.” Burt sat higher; passionate. “C’mon, let’s face it, in TV they sweeten the audience reaction with laugh tracks. They hose migraine music all over sequences that don’t work. Actors are picked by demographics.
Demographics.
You know what that means?”
Alan knew.
“It means,” explained Burt, “a goddamned computer picks ’em for you. ‘TV-Q.’ Now if that’s soul …” He was tamping the pipe, slowly shaking his head.
Alan realized he was going to have to fight back if this meal wasn’t going to turn into the lunch from hell. “And you didn’t think about audience reaction when you directed a Plummer or a Preston? Elizabeth Ashley? Pacino? Gimme a break. What you’re saying is supercilious and condescending.”
“Do you
have
to use such big words?” Burt was smiling.
Alan hated it when his father teased him but continued. “Listen,
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