enough, and unlike most other actors, Victor Mason had acquired a trenchant understanding of the financial and business side of picture making, was aware of its countless ramifications, conversant with the myriad complexities not always comprehended by other artists. He had started his movie career as an extra in Hollywood at the age of twenty, and as he had embarked on the gruelling, rung-by-rung climb up the steep and slippery ladder to stardom, he had diligently made it a point to learn every aspect of movie making. This was for his own protection, with an eye to the future as well as his present work. If there ever came a time when he no longer wanted to be an actor, he would have a second career as a producer to fall back on.
Victor was not stupid. On the contrary, he had a keen intelligence, the ability to assess people and situations accurately, and he was a tough negotiator. Apart from being shrewd and calculating, he was ambitious and driven, and he was the complete realist with his eyes perpetually scanning the profit line. Most importantly, he was blesssed with an unusual amount of foresight.
Long before any of his colleagues had seen it coming, he had predicted a radical change in the motion picture industry. He had proved to be right. Just as he had envisaged late in 1949, the old studio system had begun to disintegrate rapidly and was still plunging on its downward journey into total extinction. More and more stars were breaking free of the restrictions imposed upon them by the long-term contracts that tied them to such studios as Warner Brothers, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, Twentieth Century-Fox and Columbia. Not only the stars but all the other talent as well, such as producers, directors and writers, wanted their independence, control of their own careers and total approval of the projects they were involved with. And as far as the stars were concerned, a bigger chunk of the money, a percentage of the profits, to which they were undoubtedly entitled.
Victor had been one of the first to buck the studio system, and he had left the studio which had built him into a big name as soon as his long-term contract had expired. When the president had wanted to sign him up for another seven years he had demurred, and in 1952 he had started his own production company. Until now he had always engaged an outside independent producer to make the films he starred in, and which his company, Bellissima Productions, partially financed. With this remake of the old classic he would not only be on the screen but at the helm.
My first real freedom, he thought. But freedom does bring its own responsibilities.
The telephone rang. He turned around and stared at it in irritation, realizing he had forgotten to ask the hotel switchboard operator to monitor his calls. It shrilled again, insistently, and cursing himself for being so remiss earlier, he went to answer it.
‘Hello,’ he said in a gravely, muffled tone, attempting to disguise his voice.
‘You sound as if you were out on the tiles again last night, you old reprobate. I hope I’m not disturbing you, that this is not an inopportune moment. You sound half asleep for God’s sake. Disgusting at this hour. Are you not alone, perchance?’
Victor chuckled, recognizing Nicholas Latimer’s voice. This was standard dialogue between them, an old joke. They were both early risers, no matter what time they had gone to bed, or with whom. ‘Nicky, you son-of-a-gun, it’s great to hear from you. And of course I’m alone. What else. How’s Paris? How’s it going?’
‘Paris! You must be kidding. All I’ve seen of Paris are the walls of a hotel suite. And it’s not going badly. Quite the opposite, I’d say.’
‘That’s swell. When are you coming in?’
‘Soon,’ Nick replied laconically.
‘What the hell does that mean? Come on, give me a date, Nicky. I want to see you, to talk to you. It’s not the same when you’re not around. I miss my sparring partner.’
Nick said, ‘You all right? I detect a hint of – dejection maybe?’
‘I’m fine, not a bit dejected,’ Victor answered. ‘When can I expect you?’
‘I told you. Soon. When I’ve finished the second draft. It’s rolling pretty well. I’ve licked all the problems, and I think you’ll like the changes. Minor ones, really, but I believe they bring additional drama and effectiveness to the last few scenes.’
‘I’m certain I’ll like the new draft, Nick. There wasn’t much wrong with the first one, as far as I’m concerned.’
‘I know you were fairly well satisfied, Vic, but I felt it didn’t move quickly enough, that the pace was slow at the end. Anyway, I’ve sharpened it up in parts, and I’m pretty sure I’m on the right track now. Incidentally, have you heard from Mike Lazarus?’
Victor caught the subde change in Nick’s tone, the worried intonation. ‘No, not for a few days. Why?’ he asked, instinctively alerted.
‘No real reason. I just wondered, that’s all. He’s a difficult bastard, and I know he’s been on your back for the second draft.’
‘Don’t worry about Lazarus, Nicky. I’m not. I can deal with him. And take all the time you need with the screenplay. We can’t start shooting for at least two months, you know.’
‘Points well taken, Victor. Listen, I’ve got to run, I have an appointment. It was nice talking to you, and I’ll be seeing you soon. Sooner than you think, kid.’
‘I can’t wait,’ Victor replied with a laugh, and they both hung up. He immediately lifted the receiver, told the operator to screen his calls and asked for room service. He ordered coffee, and then turned his attention to the production sheets again, wanting to make a final check of the new figures in readiness for the meeting with the production manager the next day. But his concentration had fled. He found himself thinking instead of Nicholas Latimer, and with not a little affection. He missed Nick and would be glad when he returned from Paris, where he had insisted on going, ‘To hole up and do the rewrite in peace and quiet, with no distractions,’ Nick had explained. Victor missed the younger man, for he had come to rely on his friendship, his companionship, his sharp wit and his incisive mind.
They had first met six years ago, when the writer, then only twenty-three, was being acclaimed as the bright new star on the American literary scene, after publication of his first novel. They had been at a chic party in Bel Air, and had taken to each other immediately. Discovering their mutual boredom with the other guests and the banal movie industry chit-chat, they had made their escape to a bar in Malibu, where they had quickly exchanged confidences and laughed a lot, slowly and diligently getting roaring drunk in the process. Within the space of the next few days, most of which were spent roistering and drinking, they had become firm friends. There were some of their intimates who thought the relationship between the glamorous macho Hollywood movie star and the East Coast intellectual novelist a trifle improbable, even ludicrous, in view of the many diversities in their personalities and backgrounds. Victor and Nicky cocked a snook at these gratuitous opinions.
They knew the reason for their friendship, the foundation for their growing closeness. Quite simply, they understood each other on a fundamental level, and they recognized, too, that this closeness actually sprang from those very disparities in their characters, backgrounds, upbringing and careers. ‘And let’s face it, we do share one common denominator. Neither of us is a wasp. But then I happen to think a wop and a yid make an unbeatable team,’ Nick had said sardonically at the time. Victor had roared. Nicky’s irreverence and his ability to laugh at himself were traits the actor appreciated. Nicholas Latimer and Victor Mason might have been tipped out from the same mould, for both were mavericks at heart.
Nick had rapidly become a permanent fixture in
