Photographic (37 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

M
ARTIN
G
ROSBEK
’
S
SHOW
was intimate, distinguished, and ranged variously between low, middle, and highbrow. There was no studio audience and the cameras in the tiny studio were remote-controlled. It was a setting conducive to spilling one’s guts, or at least a few juicy entrails. Martin himself sported mussed hair trimmed by Sandoval of Manhattan, wore Savile Row suits, Italian shoes, and topped off his attire with unusual silk ties imported by his tailor from Hong Kong. His whole look was a carefully conglomerated international what’s-what, developed over a lifetime. The deconstruction of scandals was one of his many specialties, over which he hesitated and fussed as one would over a rare and dangerous type of sushi: to be savored, knowing death might be the consequence. The guests’, of course, not his. The more devastating to a career, the more delicious, and the more delighted he was to clasp hands in passing with his guest on his recovery to greater success, or descent to oblivion. 

A characteristic halting marked his speech. This left the audience and particularly the person in the hot seat in cliffhanging anxiety over the way he would conclude a question provocatively begun. 

“We are delighted today to have the rare, truly rare pleasure of…three people who…never before have been gathered together to share thoughts with us today on many issues. Two remarkable careers that have intersected at a point in time and space, called…
Odysseus
. The renowned director of Norwegian films such as
Quietus
…
Light of Saturn
…who branched out to so many other triumphs, including his award-winning
Questo Nova
. Then our guest who almost needs no introduction, one of the most famous…film stars of his generation the…inimitable Ian Reilly. 

“From big game hunter, to scientist, to lovelorn nineteenth-century schoolmaster, his range is as great as his ability to connect with audiences. Now that connection is being put to the test, by recent…allegations in the press. Also here today, and we’re most pleased to have this…rare pleasure: Jane Reilly, Ian’s wife, who seldom makes public appearances. Jane was also in the entertainment business when they married, a skilled makeup artist, who relinquished that role when they became parents to a young daughter. Welcome, Jane, Ian, and Tor.

“Firstly, I would like to ask, why did the three of you decide to join us here today, together?”

Tor swept his eyes around the group and waded in. “I think I will say, I admire Ian and Jane’s bravado. I didn’t know if they would come. I am pleased to be here with them, to talk about what is happening in the press, to settle some of the ridiculous speculation surrounding
Odysseus
. So I say thank you to them.”

“Yes. Thank you indeed. Why did you agree to do this interview, Mrs. Reilly, Jane, if I may?”

“Oh, no warm up questions?”

“None of that here. Haw!” His blustering betrayed a hint of a leer, his sharp exhaling laugh unsettling Jane further. 

“It’s all right.” She gathered herself, remembering why she was here, and that it had been her idea for such an exposure. “I wanted to talk about what happened from our point of view. We decided rather than run away from all the publicity about the film and this sort of, scandal, that erupted around it, we should face it.”

“Is that the reason you agreed to do the interview as well, Ian?” Grosbek turned to Ian.

“Yes.”

“I see. Any other reasons?”

“For example?”

Grosbek glanced at Jane, as if for support. “He’s not making it easy, is he! Bit of hard nut.”

Tor broke in. “Listen. This fellow has been through a lot. He’s been under heavy fire ever since this story broke, not having a quiet moment. Right, Ian?”

“You could say that.”

Grosbek broke in. “I think what everyone wants to know is, we’ve heard the rumors, we’ve read the tabloids and other press who speculate there was some kind of unprecedented realism on the set of
Odysseus
with regards to certain scenes. What really happened?”

Ian gestured at Tor. “I think it begins with him.”

“Yes. I had an idea. I was trying to uncover a new authenticity, a new reality on film.” He ran one hand over the other, struggling for the words. “There is the method, the acting method, yes, and that has been thoroughly explored. I looked for something full of truth. The essence of humanity. The stuff of which it is made.” His accent became more pronounced. “This is not meant to be pornographic. When will the basic needs and desires, the wide and vast means of expression possible through sexuality become not shameful, but something to be felt and transmitted from film to the audience, even in a mainstream picture? I feel this has not been explored. The French have attempted. Some directors have made little envoys. I want to take the next leap.”

Martin cleared his throat. “Let’s be clear. You’re talking about actors having sex on film. Some might call that pornography.”

Tor leaned back in his chair, his eyes flashing. He waved his arms. “For you and for everyone, that’s all you get from it. You don’t care about the meaning, or the feeling, or the intention, or any other thing. But that is the power of sex. Even the mention of the word, particularly with someone’s name attached, has the ability to cause an international incident. I intended to use the power of the actuality of sex to convey an impression that would be new: thrilling and dangerous. The audience was not to know what it was seeing was in the legitimate sense real. Yet they would feel something, subconsciously, that would hit them right where it counted.”

Martin shook his head as if bubbles had gone up his nose. “I have to say it sounds…interesting. One might even say, exciting…erotic. However, there are some other people here tonight. Ian, what did you think when you heard Tor’s idea?”

“Tor was kind of tricky.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. He kind of snuck it up on us, gradually.”

“How did he do that? Surely at some point he said, “’You two are to have intercourse,’ or something of that nature.”

“He never said those words. But we understood what he wanted at a certain point.”

“And you agreed.”

“Yes, we agreed. Not in so many words.”

“Why? Ian, if I may say so…you have…a wife.Who is right here.”

“Yes, I do.”

“So…”

“This is the hard part. There are two aspects of this I can talk about. One aspect is the artistic. The other is the personal. You’re asking me about the personal, correct?”

“Yes, I was wondering…how, or why you would agree, when you are married?”

“I just said there were two aspects to this. And while you were speaking, I thought, really they’re connected. It gets very personal. The reasons why I did it were very much artistic ones at the time, I can say that. I believed I was making a choice about art. I knew I wasn’t having a relationship with the other actor and I knew--I believed--I was doing it for the good of the film. So I can say I rationalized my choice by those principles. And even though I know sometimes people have a high school, giggle reflex when you try to talk about sex; for me the experience was about letting go of any preconceptions about acting. It was about being open, transparent. A flow of perception between Vaughn and me. Allowing ourselves to be completely raw and violent as those characters, while we were gentle with each other’s souls as human beings. It was a positive co-creation that was made possible by Tor. I hadn’t had the best relationship with him on the set, to be honest, but I understood the method to his madness in that circumstance.”

“Jane, did you give him your blessing to have sex with another woman?”

Jane and Ian looked at each other.

Ian jumped in. “Let me answer. This is where I made the biggest mistake. You might think it was in doing the scene at all, which is a point, but I didn’t talk to Jane about it beforehand. I told her after.”

Grosbek's tone became hushed. “What did you do, Jane?”

“I…I ran off to London.”

“What did you think?”

“I was horrified.” Jane looked right at Grosbek as she spoke, letting him see what he was asking of her.

He paused. “So why are you here today? What happened to bring you back together?”

“Why do you think we’re together?”

“Em.” Martin pursed his lips. 

Tor, Ian, and Jane, exchanging looks, laughed. This show of conviviality, an indicator of some perhaps subtle or tangential connection among the three of them that Martin had been trying to get wind of since the beginning of the interview, to find concrete evidence of collusion, subsided into a kind of group melancholy that left Martin puzzled. He glanced around, casting about for a clue, shut out from their sudden, shared disaffection.

“It’s a long story,” Jane said, “but, basically, we’re still working it out. One thing helps. I realize now our marriage was in trouble, before any of this happened.”

Martin tried on his trademark perspicacious look, a complicated effort that involved eyebrow, lips, and chin, aided by a supporting fist. “How did that help?”

“Oh, we’d been getting more and more estranged over the past few years. Distant, literally and figuratively, you could say. And then, these past few weeks I’ve thought about my childhood—all the things I thought didn’t matter. What you’re supposed to do when you figure out why you married the wrong guy. But I don’t think I did. Even if he is, I don’t care.” Jane spoke all this in her own rhythm, taking her time. Martin quite forgot what look of his own he was segueing into for the moment and had a thought.
That’s a comfortable sort of girl. It’d be nice to sit with a girl like that, by the fire, (he had an open fireplace at his flat in the City) and listen to her talk. Just watch her face, and listen to her, smile when she says something
. Martin was so well off into his little scene that his head lolled a bit to the side and his eyes glazed over. 

Ian turned his head towards her, not meeting her eyes but sliding his hand across the table to her hands where they lay resting in front of her. She realized her third finger, left hand was bare. She had forgotten removing the ring. It took an effort of will not to cover her left hand with her right.

Grosbek snapped back to the present. “Don’t you see what he did as cheating?” He was genuinely baffled.

Jane looked at their interlocked fingers on the table. She pulled hers away, without making it seem purposeful.“Yes.”

“How do you know he won’t do it again? What if another film comes along?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he will do it again. I hope not. I don’t think so.”

Tor said, “At the time, as far as I was concerned, it was purely about art, and his choice as an artist. Morally speaking, I felt we were within an artistic construct, and there was no question of this being a breach of marital trust.” He added, somewhat disdainfully, “It was a bending of perception in many ways, however, and I can see how people who are not used to looking at new constructs would put it into the box of infidelity.”

“New construct, indeed.” Grosbek used his snobbiest voice. The woman was blind. He’d feel quite sorry for her, if she’d let him.

After the show was over, as they gathered their things in the green room, Tor privately came over to Jane.

“What’s going to happen to you now?”

She shrugged on her jacket, tying the belt with a sharp tug. “What do you mean?”

“Are you going to stay together?”

She straightened her collar, eyeing him. “Why?”

“I find the situation interesting. I’m curious about the outcome.”

“How scientific of you. We’re your little Petri dish, are we?”

He smiled. “Come, come. I’m not as unfeeling as that.”

“Fuck off.” 

She turned around to find Ian and leave, back to the day and what it would hold, changed now their words were out in the world, part of the story told about them and the story they lived. Their side versus the press, each in competition with the other for the right to call their version the authorized one, of the multi-faceted truth. How it changed, depending who held what side of the great prism to the light.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

T
HEY
HAD
A
fight in the limo on the ride home. She tried to tell him how she was feeling, the fragile emotions the interview had aroused. He didn’t want to talk. This was too much, after what she had just done for him. They retreated to opposite corners for the rest of the drive, staring out different windows. She burst out of the car without waiting for the driver to open her door, leaving Ian to deal with the tip, and shoved through the men crowded in front of their flat pushing at her, asking questions and snapping her picture. Her mood would not go unnoticed: they usually held hands now when they entered or left the flat. 

She struggled with the key, trying not to cry in front of them. When she dropped it she gasped in frustration and scrabbled for it on the stoop. Finally the door gave way and she ran down the hall, resisting the urge to slam the door in all their faces, leaving it open behind her, fleeing up the stairs and into her bedroom, slamming that door. She had the sudden desperate need for a transatlantic phone call. Numbers swam in front of her eyes as she felt them under her finger, knowing from the sounds each button made she had pressed the right one, dialing the number from memory on Marta’s Art Deco phone. He answered on the first ring. 

“Hello?”

“Hank?”

“Jane?

“Don’t say anything.”

“What?”

“Just, don’t. Let me talk.”

A pause. “Okay.”

The silence, the space reaching out and stretching between England and the U.S. had a breadth and depth all its own, a quality arrived at by the right combination of the person listening and the person waiting to speak. Yet she found herself unable to voice the complicated descriptions she had intended. Instead a simpler feeling welled up, demanding to be heard. “I feel so alone.”