Part 4 (2/2)

”It doesn't matter,” he said. ”These people, many of whom were my friends, moved heaven and earth to get those movies made. Most of them didn't succeed. But even the few who did, they faced a furious reaction from the public, the world at large. Movies about gay people used to be a very, very hard sell. Somehow I sensed that. There was a time when I had power in this town, when I had clout. I could have helped those struggling filmmakers. But I didn't. I was afraid. I was a coward. I had my own career to worry about. But those people who made all those brave, daring movies that ended up hurting their careers? They paved the way for the movies we see today - for the changes we see today. Do you understand what I'm saying?”

”You want to make amends,” I said. ”You want to make a gay movie.”

”Not just any gay movie. I want to make your gay movie. Do you know why?”

I shook my head no again.

”We're finally at a moment in time when movies can tell the truth about gay people.” He thought for a second. ”It's not that those earlier movies didn't tell the truth. They did. But they were so constrained by the times, and they had to be so many different things to so many different people, that most of them ended up as movies of their time. Even Brokeback Mountain. It was important to show the mainstream world the reality of gay pain and suffering. But things are different now, and I think we're all tired of doom-and-gloom anyway. The point is, those movies were important, and they always will be, but they're not timeless. But your script? I think it's one for the ages.”

At this point, Mr. Brander wasn't just ma.s.saging me with his voice. Now it felt more like he was romancing me, like he was leading me in a dance, something mysterious and old-fas.h.i.+oned - a tango. Sure, he was in a wheelchair, and older than primordial ooze, but it almost felt like he was holding me, leading me around the room in his arms, through those motes of dust sparkling in the sunlight from the window, and I was more than willing to follow, step by step, somehow in perfect sync.

”Filmmakers are finally able to tell the truth about our lives,” Mr. Brander said. ”But so far, I think they're missing something essential. They think being truthful about gay people is showing b.l.o.w.j.o.bs, s.e.x. But hasn't everyone already seen that online? Or they show how horrible gay people can be too, how petty we can be to each other. And that's okay. That's a certain kind of truth, and G.o.d knows, gay people have been one-dimensional on film for far too long. But those movies, those TV shows, they don't speak to me, not at my age anyway. Maybe I'm too old, maybe I really am irrelevant, but I think the truly shocking, the truly subversive thing right now would be to make a movie that shows the truth about gay love. Not how neurotic and self-destructive it is, but how strong it is, or at least how strong it can be. And not cheap sentiment - not a romantic fantasy either, but something real and powerful. I think that's what your screenplay shows better than anything I've ever read. Oh, and the high school flashbacks? I absolutely love that it isn't at all what we expect.”

The music of Mr. Brander's voice continued to lead me on, whirling me around with his intoxicating words. He really had read my script, because he had described exactly what I'd been going for. It was something I'd talked a lot about with my mentor Vernie Rose back in Seattle. But honestly? I wasn't entirely sure I'd pulled it off. I mean, it was only the fourth screenplay I'd ever written.

”Before I die,” Mr. Brander said, ”this is the movie I want to make. This is the mark I want to leave on the world. This is the truth I want to tell.”

The music in my mind, the rhythm of Mr. Brander's voice, came to a dramatic stop, but the feeling of complete and utter devotion I felt for him now went on. Did he want one of my kidneys? He could have it. h.e.l.l, he could take 'em both! If he wanted it, I'd throw in my pancreas too.

In the silence that followed, Mr. Brander glanced down to the windowsill again, to one particular photo of a handsome man. I looked around the room and realized that the same man was in a lot of the pictures on the walls - maybe even most of them. Mr. Brander, much younger, was almost always next to him, laughing or arm-in-arm. Right near me was a photo of the two of them on the beach: s.h.i.+rtless, smiling, happy.

It's his dead partner, I thought. That's the truth he wants to tell, the story of his own love.

It was impossible not to be touched by this. Because my screenplay had been based on my own love for Kevin, I also couldn't help feeling weirdly close to Mr. Brander.

But slowly, little by little, my feet returned to the ground. The sunlight from the window had dimmed, the sparkling motes disappearing around me. This house? Mr. Brander's age? This guy couldn't possibly produce my screenplay, no matter how much he identified with it. On the other hand, as old as he was, he had produced movies before, and he'd worked with lots of important people. He still had to have at least a few good contacts. And let's face it, it's not like anyone else was knocking on my door to get my script.

”Lewis tells me you're deciding between a couple of different agents,” Mr. Brander said.

I wasn't sure what to say to that. Should I tell him the truth? Finally, I nodded. A lie seems like less of a lie if you don't actually say it out loud.

”When do you think you'll be making a decision?” he said.

”Uh, soon,” I said vaguely. It occurred to me: I could call Otto and ask if his agent would represent me. I think Otto had said she represented screenwriters, and I figured she'd be happy to rep a deal that was basically already in place. ”Very soon.”

”I can't get involved in any kind of bidding war,” Mr. Brander said. ”We'll need investors, of course, and we'll get them. By all means. But to get them, I need to show them I'm not profligate, that they can trust me with their money. Obviously, I really want to do it, but all I have to offer is my pa.s.sion for the project.”

I was about to say, ”It's okay, I wasn't expecting any money upfront,” when Mr. Brander went on to say, ”But I can offer ten thousand for a one-year option period, with an option for renewal at the same price, against two percent of the budget, a two hundred ceiling, and four points net.”

I didn't know for sure what any of that meant, but I was pretty sure that ”ten thousand” meant ”ten thousand dollars.” Which was pretty f.u.c.king fantastic, considering I'd been about to agree to ”nothing.” Even if the movie never got made - and, let's face it, it probably wouldn't - ten thousand dollars was some real money. It also meant I wouldn't have to get a job, at least for a while.

”This isn't going to be a lavish production,” Mr. Brander said. ”I'm thinking a budget of around six million. But the script is solid, and I know we can attract some top talent. Once the contracts are signed, I'll want to get started right away. I still have a very good relations.h.i.+p with Sally Field. What do you think of her for the grandmother?”

I couldn't breathe, that's what I thought of Sally Field for the grandmother.

”And who do you see as Joe and Milo?” he asked me.

”I was thinking it might be interesting to go multi-racial for at least one the roles,” I said. ”Someone like Jussie Smollett.”

Mr. Brander looked at me blankly.

”He's on a show called Empire,” I said. ”He's also out, but he plays a gay character on Empire, so he might not want to do another one.” I thought about what Otto had said about his not being able to even read for roles of characters without scars. ”I know another guy who'd be perfect too - a really great actor.”

”Excellent, excellent, my boy. Casting is the fun part, you know. It's the one part of movie-making where you don't have to make any compromises. In the end, we're going to have exactly the cast we want.”

I nodded as if I had some clue what he was talking about.

”But there'll be lots of time to discuss all this in the months ahead,” he said. Then he wheeled himself forward a couple of inches, and I realized this was the wheelchair equivalent of a person standing up. In other words, our meeting was over. ”Please have your agent call me as soon as possible.”

”Absolutely,” I stood up. ”And it was really nice to meet you. I'm really flattered - the things you said about my screenplay. That's exactly what I was going for.”

He smiled a grin as grateful and as good-looking as the ones in any of the photos on the walls.

As I was turning for the door, I came face to face with one particular photo. It was Mr. Brander, much younger - like in his twenties - but not with the handsome man this time. It was someone else, someone I recognized.

”Is that Tennessee Williams?” I said. ”The playwright?”

”Hmm?” Mr. Brander said. ”Oh. Yes.”

”You knew him?”

Mr. Brander smiled broadly. His teeth were yellow, but it was his first truly relaxed smile since I'd met him. Could it be that he'd been as nervous about this meeting as I was - that he'd been thinking he might not get the rights to my screenplay?

”Know him?” Mr. Brander said. ”I produced the original Broadway production of Sweet Bird of Youth. It was my first big production.”

I turned to look at him - down at him. ”Seriously?”

”Yes,” he said. ”Oh, I spent many a weekend with him and his partner Frank. Why?”

”It's just that Tennessee Williams is my favorite playwright. He's my favorite writer. The Gla.s.s Menagerie is my favorite play of all time.” Worried that I might have offended him, I added, ”I like Sweet Bird of Youth a lot too.”

Mr. Brander smiled, lost in reverie. ”'I have tricks in my pocket, I have things up my sleeve,'” he said, quoting from the play. ”'But I am the opposite of a stage magician. He gives you illusion that has the appearance of truth. I give you truth in the pleasant disguise of illusion.' You know, Tennessee actually worked at a shoe store when he was younger - not a shoe factory, but close. Just between you and me, I think Menagerie is his best play too.”

This was all a sign. It had to be, right? Mr. Brander's first big production had been a play by my favorite writer. And his last one was going to be a screenplay by me. What could be more perfect? Yes, Mr. Brander's was a house of contradictions. But they weren't senseless contradictions. They all added up to a perfectly plausible story: Mr. Brander felt the need to redeem himself, and he wanted to do it with my screenplay.

Even better, he wasn't asking me to give up my soul in exchange for success, or anything like that.

I didn't want to get ahead of myself. Maybe this project wouldn't go anywhere. I knew the whole deal could fall through tomorrow. It's not like I was now going to go out looking for just the right spot on that sidewalk on Hollywood Avenue for my own star on the Walk of Fame.

Okay, that was a lie. I was getting ahead of myself - way ahead - and I'd probably go out scoping spots for my star on the Walk of Fame too.

But for the time being, I was at least smart enough not to tell that to anyone else.

CHAPTER FOUR.

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