Heartland (24 page)

He gave Britt a fearful glance, who said, “You're not fired yet. Go on.”

His voice trembled, but he persisted. “I say, let's hold to digital. It'd cost us a ton to bring in the new film equipment and switch over. Holding to digital cuts the per-frame cost by a factor of fifteen. Ditch all the lights except for one main and two spots for the close-ups. But keep the electricians. I know them and they trust me. Plus the digital cameras have maybe eight times the cable hookups as film. These guys will handle the wires and the reflectors. I'll need seven reflectors at a minimum, maybe as many as twelve for each outdoor shot.”

Britt gave him stone. “You've thought this through.”

“A lot.” He swallowed audibly. “Can I say one thing more?”

“You're on a roll. Why stop now?”

“With the money we save from the lighting, let me have a second cameraman. And an assistant for each of us. These digital cameras are a monster to shift. And a steadicam for as long as I want.”

Even Peter knew the request for unlimited steadicam was a serious breach. Steadicams were rented by the day. They came with their own operator. Steadicams were carried on a gyro-based unit strapped to the operators' bodies. Batteries were held in a canvas belt. The cameras moved on a hydraulic lift that worked with the gyros to smooth out all motion. Even walking over rough terrain was rendered smooth and seamless. The problem with steadicams was weight. A steadicam and gyro frame and battery pack weighed a hundred and twenty pounds. The cameraman was required to move at a slight crouch to keep his eye on the aperture.

A steadicam cameraman was always young and extremely fit. Even so, steadicam operators usually blew out their spines by age thirty-five. Steadicam operators were the only members of film crews who were never covered by studio insurance. Which was why they were always outsiders hired on a daily rate. A steadicam's contract was three hundred pages long, and protected the studio from everything up to and including typhoons. It was not just the cost of steadicam equipment that lifted their per diem into the stratosphere.

But all Britt said was, “I'll think about it.”

Derek was still expelling his captured breath as Britt turned to Peter and said, “How do we stand on story?”

Peter knew it was coming. And still felt his gut freeze at the simple question. But he had Derek's courage to stand by. So he spoke more calmly than he felt. “I've never written for a feature. Well, I have. I mean, I've done a couple of spec scripts. They got shopped around and basically shelved. So I can give you what I think might work. But I'm ready to have you tell me that you want something different.”

“Honesty. An interesting approach. Go on.”

“Okay.” He switched his gaze to Kelly and JayJay, basically because he found more encouragement there. “The first writer on the show, Ben Picksley, set the rules that I still follow. One moral and one action per show. We had planned to follow the same for the two-hour special. Commercials would have cut it down to eighty-nine minutes. Basically what we're talking about is adding only seven minutes more to the film time. But time is not the issue. A ninety-minute special would have a series of mini-climaxes timed around the commercial breaks, leading up to the final bang. A film runs to a more classical three-act structure.”

He turned back to Britt. “I'd say there are two problems. But neither of them have to do with the action.”

“The wildfire.”

“Right. That still works. We could just expand it from threatening the ranch to the town.”

Britt mulled that over. Then, “Two problems.”

It was Peter's turn to swallow. Hollywood Boulevard was littered with failed writers who proposed concepts their directors loathed. “Ben's rule for the moral was that it could never hold more weight than a sick puppy. Cute, sentimental, and reducible to one line of dialogue.”

Claire smiled. “I remember him saying that.”

“Right. So I want to heighten the moral issue into something that generates a sense of audience identity. Something that
defines
this film. Something so big, so important, it holds equal weight to the action. Something that our core audience will recognize as being a genuine part of their world.”

Britt's gaze had hardened. “You're talking about restructuring the core concept behind the series.”

“That's right.” His voice sounded strangled to his own ears. “I am.”

“You've obviously been giving this some thought. Why wait until now to bring it up?”

“Because Neil Townsend could never have carried what I'm suggesting. He would have mouthed the words and made the whole concept a lie.”

Britt nodded slowly. “Okay. That's problem one.”

“The other is the story's hook.”

“You and I have discussed this.”

“Right. I think I've found what I've been looking for.”

Britt rolled his finger. Action. As in, keep shooting.

Peter continued, “JayJay Parsons could be revealed as a lodestar. A moral compass. Not for the ranch. For the
world
. He stands up for what is right. This isn't about JayJay against the fire or the twister or the runaway cattle. This is JayJay against today's moral drift.”

Britt returned his gaze to the tabletop. Deep in thought.

Peter's heart was hammering so hard he was sure the entire table must be able to hear it. Directly across from him, Derek lifted one thumb. And nodded. A small nod. But a nod just the same.

Then Kelly chuckled.

That drew Britt up. He studied the woman's smile, his gaze very tight. He had spent a lot of time watching actors give for the camera. “You find this funny?”

“Don't mind me. It's just . . .”

“What?”

“It's nice to hear somebody say what I've been thinking all week.”

JayJay shifted on the side wall. “Y'all just stop.”

“No, JayJay.” Kelly redirected her smile and gave up something that, even though it was directed at another man, still caught in Peter's heart. “No.”

“I ain't nobody's idea of perfect.”

“That's not what Peter is saying. Is it, Peter.”

“No.”

“Sure sounded that way to me.” JayJay kicked the rug with one boot. “And from where I'm standing . . .”

He stopped because Kelly reached over and took hold of his arm. “He didn't call you perfect, JayJay. He called you a hero.”

Britt said to Peter, “Give me the hook in one line.”

But it was Kelly who answered. “JayJay Parsons. The most real man I've ever known.”

Britt's mask of stone and worry fractured slightly. At least enough for crinkles to form around his eyes and mouth. “So what we're talking about is a moral drama with strong action underpinnings. Shot completely in digital.”

The room held its breath.

Britt said, “I'm giving this a tentative go. I'll let you know about the lighting and the steadicam after we've had a chance to check out the first few dailies.”

Derek leaned back, looked at the ceiling, and whispered, “Thank You.”

Britt was not done. “I can't tell you how long we've got to make this work. But I think we can all assume that time is a critical factor. Time and quality. We need to make this thing so solid, so
professional
, we give the studio no reason whatsoever to shut us down.”

The director looked at each of them in turn. His gaze so intent Peter felt it sear his internal organs. Britt went on, “I'm not just asking for best efforts. I'm asking you all to give me every ounce of greatness you possibly can.”

Chapter 28

T
he Centurion boardroom was separated from Martin Allerby's office by a pair of double doors. The doors, along with all the room's other fittings, had been stripped from the set of
The Cotton Club
, a poor film but a great set. In Martin's opinion, the twenties-era chamber fit this gathering entirely, as the Centurion board members were totally out of touch with the America of today.

There was one African-American, a pastor. Two accountants, one retired, the other within coughing distance of his third coronary. A retired U.S. congresswoman from Dawes' district. A pair of former studio executives who between them could not have found an original opinion with a map. And Leo Gish, attorney extraordinaire.

Milo Keplar and Glenn Pritchard, Centurion's chief auditor, and Martin's assistant, Gloria, made up the eleven. All but Milo were confirmed Dawes mouthpieces. As usual, the only voice that really mattered was silent, as Carter Dawes was a no-show. Today, however, the empty chair did not concern Martin Allerby one iota. Carter Dawes had already given his approval. This was window dressing. But important nonetheless. They would all report their findings back to the little man on his Ojai Valley ranch. The man who needed to be convinced this was real. And then be forced to accept that his ridiculous excuse for a program was generating one of the most spectacular cinematic failures in the history of Hollywood. So he would finally sell out.

Then Martin Allerby would finally own his dream. A throne in the world of film.

Martin said, “Everybody have a fresh coffee? Fine. Then I'll call this meeting to order.”

Leo cleared his throat and said what he did every quarter. “Mr. Dawes regrets that other commitments keep him from joining us. I represent him and hold full powers of attorney.”

“So noted.” Martin pretended to study the room. As though any of these clones would matter four weeks from today.

Ever cautious, Martin had covered the financial bases before moving. Only when Harry Solish's funds and those from the porn king were deposited in his accounts did he set the machine in motion. Carter Dawes was not the only one who kept a stable of tame former studio execs. Two retired directors with impeccable résumés had fronted a deal to buy Centurion. Lock, stock, and barrel.

The previous day, Leo Gish, Allerby's compliant lawyer, had called with the news. Carter Dawes had tentatively accepted his offer.

Today's meeting was to ensure the old man stayed hooked.

Allerby waited until all accounting formalities were concluded. When Gloria called for new business and no one else spoke, he rose from his chair. “I have something to discuss.”

He took a step back so that his face was emblazoned by the same silvery light that bathed the framed poster behind his chair. Allerby had placed
Heartland
's opening-season placard where he would not need to see it. Now it only added to the moment.

“We are in the business of visual fast food. I don't mean Centurion. I mean the entire studio industry. We supply what people want. Unfortunately for all concerned, fast food is not particularly healthy. If devoured in the sort of doses we see today, it decays the spirit. It weakens resolve. It suggests that all life can be resolved in thirty-minute cycles.”

Martin took aim at the pastor. “I don't share your perspective on religion, Reverend. But I do accept that something more is needed. Something deeper. This is what
Heartland
has been in the business of delivering.”

He saw a couple of the heads begin nodding and worked at keeping the triumph from his voice. He knew exactly how to push their buttons. He should. He'd endured their out-of-date posturing long enough.

It wasn't just the actors who could deliver a solid Hollywood line.

Martin pointed to the poster. “For reasons beyond our control, however, the series has entered into decline. All of you are aware of the problems. I don't intend to rehash old business. Some of you may have heard that we've signed on a new JayJay Parsons. If you're interested, Gloria can supply you with copies of his early takes. Or you can simply take my word for it.”

Milo touched one finger to the corner of his mouth, determinedly tugging out the first vestige of a smile. Allerby chose to ignore his partner as he continued, “His first day on the set, Mr. Junior went straight from his screen test to volunteering for frontline duty fighting a local wildfire. He saved two lives that afternoon, a local woman and the writer of the
Heartland
show. I assume most of you have seen the resulting publicity.”

“Priceless,” Milo intoned on cue. “It just keeps coming.”

“So what we have is a unique confluence of events,” Allerby continued. “We have signed a genuine hero who actually embodies the elements we've sold in
Heartland
for six successful seasons. As a result, we have a chance to revive a program with the most loyal following of anything on television today. An opportunity too good to pass up.” He paused for effect, then delivered the killer line. “My intention, ladies and gentlemen, is to translate this into a feature film.”

He allowed them a moment to let that sink in, then said, “Milo, have you had a chance to run the numbers?”

His sales director opened the leather portfolio. “Last year's average audience was eight point eight million an episode. Down eleven percent from the year before. Which was down fourteen percent from the previous season.”

“How would this translate to screen numbers?”

Milo pretended to consult his figures. “Assuming no increase in numbers and we could bring two-thirds of our audience to theaters, the studio's take should be in excess of twenty-five mil.”

“I intend to hold film costs to twelve million,” Allerby went on. “Another five for marketing. Release in just under a thousand theaters and let it grow steadily. And remember, we are dealing with rock-bottom numbers here. If we are able to draw in sixty percent of our
highest
ratings, what would we be looking at, Milo?”

Again there was the dramatic pause, then, “Forty-eight million plus.”

One of the studio execs protested, “But your ratings decline suggests the program has run its course.”

Martin smiled thinly and swallowed his initial retort, which was that this very same executive had forced two knockoff sitcoms down America's throat for years with half those ratings. What he said was, “It's possible you are right. But we have evidence to the contrary. Milo?”