Close-Up

Koolman said, ‘But my audiences are in their neighbourhood movie houses, sitting in wet coats, after a day’s work, maybe tough manual work. They don’t need mental challenge by some smart little movie-maker. They don’t want to feel inferior to a film’s intellectual content. They want a laugh and a bit of excitement. They’ll forgive a movie that is predictable, slick and superficial because those very faults will make them feel superior.’

‘That’s a gloomy policy for a movie-maker.’

‘It’s a realistic policy,’ said Koolman.

‘I never know when you are teasing,’ said Josephine Stewart.

‘I’m never teasing,’ said Koolman.

Weinberger came into the room warily. He reached inside a fake bookcase and opened the refrigerator. He poured himself a bitter lemon and sat down in the corner. Koolman squeezed Jo Stewart’s arm as she said goodbye and waved hello at Weinberger. He looked around the room to see if there was any unfinished business. Having decided there was not, he looked at his watch. He used a fob watch so that he could look at it without any danger of the gesture passing unnoticed. Dennis Lightfoot noticed and took it as his cue. ‘It’s about time, Leo,’ he said loudly. Lightfoot was the executive in charge of European production. He could OK anything with a budget under two million dollars. Leo Koolman was here to see how Dennis Lightfoot’s guesses were making out.

Koolman put his arm around Lightfoot. ‘Let’s go, everyone,’ he said softly. The roomful of people began to move. The lift gates were open and the canned music was moaning softly. The men who travelled in the elevator were relaxed and smiling and yet they were as alert as the Secret Service men who guard their president. Only Weinberger and six chosen executives took the lift to the basement where the viewing theatre was situated. The others wandered down to the lobby where they chatted and laughed, sub-divided and re-formed several times until they were in three mutually agreed groups. Only then did they make their separate ways to three very different restaurants.

The viewing theatre had thirty seats. Two of them were already occupied by Edgar Nicolson and the director of Silent Paradise, the film they were about to see. Nicolson was sitting at the console tapping his fingers on the projection room phone. Koolman guided Lightfoot to a chair and then sat between him and Nicolson. The rest of the men seated themselves in the four corners of the theatre, knowing that whether the film was good or bad it was just as well to have a row of seats between oneself and Koolman.

‘Everyone here?’ said Koolman. Silent Paradise had finished shooting over three months before and still was not ready. His voice clearly implied that no one was going to leave the room until he knew why.

‘Everyone is here,’ said Lightfoot.

‘Where’s Marshall Stone?’ said Leo Koolman.

‘He’s coming straight from the location, Leo,’ said Weinberger. ‘He said to start.’

‘He said to start,’ said Koolman. He nodded. Weinberger realized that that had been a tactless way of putting it. ‘Then let’s start.’

Nicolson picked up the red phone and pressed the button. ‘OK, Billy, let’s go.’

The room lights dimmed slowly and a beam of light cut a bright rectangle from the whorls of cigar smoke. The KI trademark came into focus and Nicolson pressed the buttons to make the curtains divide. He was a little late. By the time they were fully open, the trademark – a large tome with ‘Koolman International Inc Presents’ written on it in Gothic lettering – had cut to some second unit footage of a street in Anchorage.

‘No titles?’ said Koolman in a loud whisper.

‘They come at the end,’ explained Nicolson.

‘At the end,’ said Koolman affably. ‘Is this for the Chinese market, this movie?’

‘No, Leo,’ said Nicolson and then he laughed. ‘Ha, ha, ha.’

‘Chinese market,’ said Lightfoot, his words ending in the sibilant hiss of a man desperately trying to suppress his merriment.

‘Titles go in the front of a movie,’ said Koolman patiently.

‘I think you’re right, Leo,’ said Nicolson. ‘It was just an experiment.’

‘Tell them you’re going to tell them. Tell them. Then tell them you told them,’ said Koolman. ‘Don’t say you don’t know that basic rule about the movie business.’

Nicolson didn’t answer but Lightfoot gave a hint of a chuckle.

On the screen there was a helicopter shot of an Arctic wasteland. ‘Great camerawork, Nic,’ said one of the Americans.

‘Did it in Yorkshire,’ said Nicolson.

‘No kidding,’ said the American.

‘Had to remove four hundred telephone poles,’ said Nicolson.

‘Don’t you have a music track?’ said Koolman.

‘We have a wonderful track but we thought we’d try and get a feeling of emptiness and loneliness right here.’

‘That’s the feeling we’ll get all right,’ agreed Koolman, ‘emptiness and loneliness – right there in the movie theatres,’ he gave a grim mirthless chuckle.

‘It’s a great soundtrack, Leo,’ said Nicolson. He turned up the volume control and hoped it would start. It did. There was an eerie sound as massed trumpets began the musical theme.

‘It’s not bad, that tune,’ said Koolman.

‘It’s just running wild at present,’ said Nicolson.

‘It’s great,’ said the same American as before.

‘It’s a catchy tune,’ said Lightfoot modestly.

‘I’ll tell you what to do with that…’ said Koolman. He leaned aside to Lightfoot.

‘Edgar,’ supplied Lightfoot, and Koolman leaned back to Nicolson again.

‘I’ll tell you what to do with that, Edgar,’ said Koolman.

‘Yes, Leo?’ said Nicolson as if he really wanted to know.

‘Lyrics: get some kid singing it. Look what that tune did for Dr Zhivago.’

‘Great idea,’ said Lightfoot.

‘We’ll give it a try,’ said Nicolson.

‘Don’t give it a try,’ sighed Koolman, ‘just do it.’

‘It could be great,’ said Nicolson doubtfully.

‘Da, da, di, da, da, daaa, daaa, daaaaaa I could be a lonely man.’ Koolman tried to improvise words to the theme which was now being repeated for the tenth time.

‘This is just the rough track,’ said Nicolson. ‘It will have a big orchestra when we do the real one.’

‘Get that lonely feeling in the words,’ said Koolman. ‘All these kids love to feel sorry for themselves.’

One of the Americans was head of the KI Music, Koolman’s sheet music and recording company. He said to Nicolson, ‘You give me your wild track, I’ll talk to my people in New York.’

‘Thanks a lot,’ said Nicolson. ‘A tape will be on your desk tomorrow, that’s a promise.’