DEL PARKED his car in the studio lot, the zone to which Bernie Schulman’s assistant had directed him. Getting out of the car, he noted the office building the assistant had described—not that he needed to be told—and found it would require a small trek across the parking lot. Best parking spot he’d ever had on this lot, though.
Bernie Schulman had asked Del to come alone, without Arnie. He wouldn’t make an offer here, Schulman had promised, but some things were best kept hush-hush while talking possibilities.
Schulman had called Del personally. After so many years without anyone stroking his ego this way, Del had fallen for it. And with gusto.
Upon entering Schulman’s office suite and checking in with his assistant, he took a seat. Schulman kept him waiting for a few minutes. Then again, should Del have expected anything less? This was the head guy, after all. He was eager to negotiate but wanted to maintain whatever impression of an upper hand he could. Smart move. Del could respect that.
When Schulman emerged, he welcomed Del with a hearty pat on the back, instructed his assistant to hold his calls, and led his new best friend into his office. The scent of leather furniture filled the room.
“Please, have a seat.” Schulman waved to a small group of chairs around a coffee table, which sat at one end of his office, far away from that formal, unnecessary desk that makes things so complicated. Just a casual chat between two power brokers.
Del took the seat closest to himself. Behind him, at the rear of the room, he spotted one of those little putting greens, the kind by which filmmakers have stereotyped CEO offices, with a golf club and three orange golf balls resting upon it.
Schulman settled into the seat beside Del’s. “Would you like some coffee? Water?”
“No thanks, Bernie.”
“It was good to see you at the little soiree the other night. Always a pleasure.”
Del crossed his leg, his heel facing away from his host. “Congratulations on the film. It looks like it will be another success for the studio.”
“Yeah, we’ve had a solid string of hits for several years now.” Schulman brushed an invisible piece of lint from his knee. “We’re the winning team in town, Del. We’re the ones people want to work with when they want a blockbuster.”
“I’ve kept abreast of your track record at the helm. Quite impressive.”
Schulman nodded. “You’re a smart guy, Del, so I’ll cut to the chase.”
“I appreciate that.”
“I would like to partner with you on this script of yours—of hers, that is. You and Marilyn were friends, as I understand?”
“We were.”
“So this is personal for you. You have an opportunity to honor her memory.”
“You’re observant, Bernie.”
“Can I be blunt with you, Del? In the wrong hands, this film will plummet. It will fail from the launch—poor quality, poor vision, poor marketing, whatever the case. And this project is a gem, Del. It’s a rarity. We can’t let failure happen, can we?”
“Should I remind you that you said you wouldn’t present an offer here?”
“And I won’t. This meeting is my attempt to set forth a vision. The project is delicate, and we want to keep it all in-house. I’ve talked to corporate. The studio and its parent company are interested in sweeping rights—and as the dominant force in town, we have the muscle to make it happen. We want to sink a lot of cash into this.”
Smothering Del with sincerity, Schulman continued his pitch by counting off details, one by one, on his fingers. He was one of those guys who started with his thumb.
“I’m talking screenplay rights; production from start to finish; theatrical and video distribution rights, both foreign and domestic. Soundtrack rights for our sister company’s record label. Vertical marketing from top to bottom: the studio, the music arm, plus all the TV and radio stations, Internet outlets, publications, and restaurant chains our parent company owns. Director and principal approvals for you. We’ll even name you as a producer. And get this, Del: Our company has a partial interest in a vineyard in Northern California. We’ll cultivate an exclusive wine in honor of Marilyn Monroe and this film for our upper-brow audiences. Can you imagine! A smooth, luscious red wine—something dark and sexy, just like this script.”
Del fought to maintain a straight face, but he felt his jaw go slack. Moisture evaporated from his tongue. He wished he’d accepted Schulman’s offer for that bottled water.
“This is history in the making, Del, and public response will be stratospheric. Normally, we’d spread the risk by incorporating other studios at partners, but not this time. We’re willing to bet huge on this. No selling partial rights to try to recoup our costs, no allowing some other studio to come in and fuck it up—and you can put that in the contract.”
“Is that the phrase you plan to put in the contract? ‘No fuck-ups?’”
Schulman responded with a hearty power laugh. “What can I say, Del? I’m a straight shooter. Neither of us is one to mince words, am I right?”
Del switched legs and tried not to drool at the fortune, the clout, within his reach. What could be behind door number two? “I don’t know what to say. I do need to take extra care with this.”
Schulman held out his hands to communicate his willingness to back off and respect Del’s space. “I understand,” he nodded. “Like I said, this is special, and we want to handle the entire thing—vertical, horizontal, and all the way around—to protect its integrity. We owe that to Ms. Monroe’s legacy, am I right?”
“Absolutely.” Del almost felt guilty, but he pressed on. Would he ever receive another opportunity this good? Poker face, Del. Keep your poker face. “You’ve made a compelling case, but Arnie is handling the negotiations. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the reach, but why call me all the way over here to discuss the details without him?”
Schulman’s eyes narrowed, and Del could have sworn he caught a twinkle in one of them. The studio chief grinned.
“You’re a savvy guy, Del, so I won’t play games.” Schulman leaned forward and interlaced his fingers, speaking in a hushed tone as if they were portraying spies in a World War II film and the director had called, Action! “I did have one more idea for this film, but I wanted to gauge your interest—under the radar—without getting agents or other delegates involved. You know how people misinterpret things.”
Whatever would come next, Del couldn’t imagine, but it sounded like the mother lode.
Del remained carved granite. He didn’t flinch, didn’t utter a word—and didn’t take his eyes off of Bernie Schulman.
“I want to cast you in the major supporting role.” Schulman took a dramatic pause, while his words sank into Del’s mind. “You’ve read the script, Del. You know which character I’m referring to. We’re talking a plum role—the type of role comebacks are made of.” Schulman pierced Del’s eyes. “And it can be yours.”
His dream. Set before him on a silver platter.
Say something, Del! Say something!
“I, uh, don’t know what to say, Bernie.”
Schulman leaned back into his seat, then crossed his leg to match Del’s, their feet facing each other.
“We know this film will be a commercial success,” the studio chief said, “but the script itself is golden. I don’t know where Marilyn Monroe found the words or the concept, but apparently, the woman had more raw, biting talent than anybody was aware of. We’re talking an Academy Award contender here, from top to bottom, and it’s anchored in the script.”
When Del tried to glance down at his hands, Schulman tilted his head, caught his attention, and made sure their eye contact Del remained locked.
“And Del, that means a real chance for you—not just for a career resurgence, but for a golden statue that has eluded you since 1978.”
Del had never considered that.
“Bernie, I’m a bit skeptical about—”
Schulman flattened his hand and waved it to cut off Del’s speech. One slice.
“Think about it, Del: Henry Fonda was nominated in 1940 and lost. He wasn’t nominated again for more than forty years—but he won with that second nomination. On Golden Pond, remember? The guy was what, seventy-five years old?”
He had a point. The acidic feeling, that niggling sense of guilt, continued to dance in his heart; at the same time, however, Del’s imagination tangoed to its rhythm. He caught himself strategizing several steps ahead.
“What about the lead role?” Del asked. “It would require a strong female. Any thoughts on that?”
“As a matter of fact, I think the chatter is dead-on. I’d want Nora Jumelle in the role. Have you ever met her?”
“We’ve crossed paths once or twice.”
Del’s mind retreated to the night he had invited Nora, Tristan and Felicia to his house for dinner. He replayed his conversation with Nora in his kitchen, when something about her demeanor didn’t settle well with him. He sensed darkness about her, emotional vulnerability that stretched beyond the leaked nude photo. Something else disturbed her.
Before Del could wade deeper into his thought process, Schulman’s voice lured him back to reality.
“So you tell me, Del.” Bernie Schulman smirked, his tongue poking against the inside of his cheek. “Am I on the right track?”