The Winner Stands Alone

Maureen approached actresses who, less than a decade earlier, had been at the top of the tree, but who now sensed that the ground was beginning to slip away from under them and that they desperately needed to get back to the way things were. It was a good script; she sent it to their agents, who demanded an absurd salary and got a straightforward ‘No’ as an answer. Her next step was to approach each actress individually. She told them that she had the money for the project, and they all ended up accepting on the understanding that no one would know that they were working for almost nothing.

In something like the film industry, there was no point in being humble. Sometimes, the ghost of Orson Welles would appear to her in dreams: ‘Try the impossible. Don't start low down because that's where you are now. Climb those rungs quickly before they take the ladder away. If you're afraid, say a prayer, but carry on.’ She had an excellent script, a first-class cast, and knew that she had to produce something that was acceptable to the big studios and distributors, but without sacrificing quality. It was possible and, indeed, obligatory for art and commerce to go hand-in-hand. As for the rest, well, the rest consisted of various things: the kind of critic who's into mental masturbation and who loves films no one else understands; the small alternative circuits where the same half dozen people emerge from showings and spend the small hours in bars discussing one particular scene (whose meaning was, very possibly, quite different from the one intended when it was filmed); directors giving lectures to explain what should be obvious to the audience; trade-union meetings calling for more state aid for domestic cinema; manifestos in intellectual magazines - the result of interminable meetings, at which the same old complaints were made about the government's lack of interest in supporting the arts; the occasional letter published in the serious press and usually read only by the interested parties or the families of the interested parties.

Who changes the world? The Superclass. Those who do. Those who alter the behaviour, hearts and minds of the largest possible number of people.

That's why she wanted Javits, an Oscar and Cannes.

And since she couldn't get those things ‘democratically’ -other people were very willing to offer advice, but never to shoulder any of the risks - she simply gambled everything. She took on whoever was available, spent months rewriting the script, persuaded excellent - but unknown - art directors, designers and supporting actors to take part, promising them almost no money, only increased visibility in the future. They were all impressed by the names of the five main actresses (‘The budget must be astronomical!’), and initially asked for large salaries, but ended up convinced that participating in such a project would look really good on their CVs. Maureen was so enthusiastic about the idea that her enthusiasm seemed to open all doors.

Now came the final step, the one that would make all the difference. It isn't enough for a writer or musician to produce something of quality; they have to make sure their work doesn't end up gathering dust on a shelf or in a drawer.

Vi-si-bi-li-ty is what's required!

She sent a copy of the film to just one person: Javits Wild. She used all her contacts. She suffered rejection, but carried on anyway. She was ignored, but that didn't diminish her courage.

She was mistreated, ridiculed, excluded, but still she believed it was possible because she had poured her life's blood into what she had done. Then her ex-boyfriend entered the scene, and Javits Wild agreed to see her film and to meet her.

She keeps her eyes on Javits all through lunch, savouring in anticipation the moment they will spend together in two days’ time. Suddenly, she notices him go stiff, his eyes fixed on nothing. One of the friends with him glances behind and to the side, slips one hand inside his jacket. The other man starts frantically keying in a number on his mobile phone.

Has something happened? Surely not. The people nearest him are still talking, drinking, enjoying another day of Festival, parties, sun and nice bodies.

One of the men tries to help Javits up and make him walk, but he appears incapable of movement. It can't be anything serious. Too much drink perhaps. Tiredness. Stress. No, it can't be anything serious. She has come so far, she is so close and …

She can hear a siren in the distance. It must be the police, cutting their way through the permanently congested traffic in order to reach some important person.

One of the men puts Javits’ arm around his shoulder and more or less carries him towards the door. The siren is getting closer. The other man, still with his hand inside his jacket, keeps looking in all directions. At one point, their eyes meet.

Javits is being taken up the ramp by one of his friends, and Maureen is wondering how someone so slight can possibly carry such a heavily built man and with so little apparent effort.

The sound of the siren stops right outside the marquee. Javits has, by now, disappeared with one of the friends, but the second man is walking towards her, one hand still inside his jacket.

‘What happened?’ she asks, frightened, because years of directing actors have taught her that this man's face is that of a professional killer, a face that looks as if it were carved out of stone.

‘You know what happened,’ the man says in an accent she can't identify.

‘I saw that he began to feel ill, but what did happen?’

The man keeps his hand inside his jacket, and at that moment, it occurs to Maureen that this might be a chance to transform a minor incident into a great possibility.

‘Can I help? Can I go with him?’

The hand in the jacket seems to relax a little, but the eyes watch every move she makes.

‘I'll come with you. I know Javits Wild. I'm a friend of his.’

After what seems like an eternity, but which can't have been more than a fraction of a second, the man turns and walks quickly away towards the Boulevard, without saying a word.

Maureen's brain is working fast. Why did he say that she knew what had happened? And why did he suddenly lose all interest in her?

The other guests haven't noticed a thing, apart from the sound of the siren, which they probably attribute to something going on out in the street. Sirens have nothing to do with joy, sun, drinks, contacts, beautiful women, handsome men, with the pale and the tanned. Sirens belong to another world, a world of heart attacks, diseases and crime. Sirens are of no interest to the people here.

Maureen's head begins to spin. Something has happened to Javits, and this could be a gift from the gods. She runs to the door and sees an ambulance speeding away, sirens blaring, down the blocked-off lane of the Boulevard.

‘That's my friend,’ she says to one of the bodyguards at the entrance. ‘Where have they taken him?’

The man gives her the name of a hospital. Without pausing to think, Maureen starts running to find a taxi. Ten minutes later, she realises that there are no taxis in the city, only those summoned by hotel porters, lured by the prospect of generous tips. Since she has no money in her bag, she goes into a pizzeria, shows someone working there the map she has with her, and learns that she must run for at least half an hour to reach her objective.

She's been running all her life, so half an hour won't make much difference.

12.53 p.m. (#ulink_b163e16e-0b9e-5e1c-99a0-bdcb9576ef39)

‘Good morning.’

‘You mean “Good afternoon”, don't you?’ one of the other girls replies. ‘It's gone midday.’

Everything is exactly as she'd imagined. The five other young women waiting all rather resemble her, at least physically. They, however, are heavily made up, wear short skirts and low-cut tops and are busy with their mobile phones and their texts.

No one speaks because they know they're soulmates who have all been through the same difficulties and have uncomplainingly faced the same challenges and taken every rebuff on the chin. They're all trying hard to believe that dreams have no sell-by date, that life can change from one second to the next, that somewhere the right moment is waiting for them, and that this is just a test of their will-power.

They've all perhaps quarrelled with their families, who are convinced their daughters will end up working as prostitutes.

They've all been on stage and experienced the agony and the ecstasy of seeing the audience and knowing that every eye is fixed on them; they've felt the electricity in the air and heard the applause at the end. They've imagined a hundred times over that there will come a night when a member of the Superclass will be in the audience and visit them in their dressing-room after the performance with something more substantial to offer than an invitation to supper, a request for their phone number or compliments on a job well done.

To begin with, they accepted a few of those invitations, but the only place they led to was the bed of some powerful, older man - usually married, as all the ‘interesting’ men are -concerned only with notching up another conquest.

They all had a boyfriend their own age, but when anyone asked if they were married or single, they always answered: ‘Free and unattached.’ They thought they were in control of the situation. They've all been told - hundreds of times now - that they have real talent and just need the right opportunity, and that the person there before them is the one who can transform their lives. They've occasionally believed this too. They've fallen into the trap of being over-confident and thinking they were in charge, until the next day comes and the phone number they'd been given puts them through to the extension of a very grumpy secretary who has no intention of letting them speak to her boss.

They've threatened to sell their story to the tabloids, saying that they had been deceived, although none of them has ever actually done so because they're still at the stage of thinking: ‘I mustn't spoil my chances in the acting world.’

One or two may even have shared Gabriela's Alice in Wonderland experience, and now want to prove to their families that they're far more capable than they thought. Their families, of course, have all by now seen their daughters in commercials, on posters and billboards scattered round the city and, after a few initial arguments, are convinced that those same daughters are on the verge of entering a world of ‘bright lights and glamour’.

All the girls there believed that their dream was possible, that one day their talent would be recognised, until the penny dropped: there is only one magic word - ‘contacts’. They had all distributed their ‘books’ as soon as they arrived in Cannes, and now keep a constant eye on their mobile phones, getting invited to whatever launches and events they can and trying their best to get into those they can't, always dreaming that someone will ask them to one of the evening parties or, dream of dreams, award them that greatest of prizes, an invitation to walk down the red carpet at the Palais des Congrès. That, however, was probably the most difficult dream to realise, so difficult that they didn't really allow themselves to think about it, in case the feelings of rejection and frustration destroyed their ability to wear the happy face they must wear at all times, even when they're not happy at all.

Contacts.

After many cases of mistaken identity, they did find the occasional useful contact, which is why they're here. One such contact had led to a New Zealand producer calling them. None had asked what it was about; they knew only that they had to be punctual because no one has any time to lose, certainly not people in the film industry. The only ones who do are the five young women in the waiting-room, busy with their mobile phones and their magazines, compulsively sending texts to see if they've been invited to something later in the day, trying to talk to their friends and always making a point of saying that they're not free to speak right now because they have an important meeting with a film producer.

Gabriela is the fourth person to be called. She had tried to interpret the look in the eyes of the first three candidates who emerged from the room without saying a word, but then, of course, they're all actresses, capable of hiding any emotion, be it joy or sadness. All three strode determinedly to the door and wished the others a confident ‘Good luck’, as if to say: ‘No need to be nervous, girls, you've got nothing to lose. The part's mine.’

One of the walls in the apartment is covered with a black cloth. The floor there is cluttered with all kinds of electric cables and lights covered with a metal mesh, and there's a kind of umbrella with a white cloth spread before it, as well as sound equipment, screens and a video camera. In the corners stand bottles of mineral water, metal briefcases, tripods, bits of paper and a computer. Sitting on the floor, a bespectacled, thirty-something woman is leafing through Gabriela's book.

‘Awful,’ she says, not looking up at her. ‘Awful.’

Gabriela doesn't know quite what to do. Perhaps she should pretend she isn't listening and go over to the group of chainsmoking technicians chatting brightly in one corner or perhaps she should simply stay where she is.

‘This one's awful,’ said the woman again.

‘That's me.’