lights. As she moved from room to room, she wondered why she felt strangely let down and disappointed.
Victor Mason sat at the desk in the sitting room of his suite at Claridge’s Hotel, studying the budget for his intended remake of Wuthering Heights.
With his usual punctiliousness, he examined the columns of figures, analysed each projected expenditure with objectivity, endeavouring to ascertain whether, and how, it could be trimmed. Painstakingly, he began to make headway, jotting notes on a yellow legal pad as he found ways to reduce the costs, and eventually at the end of two hours, through scrupulous cutting, he had saved four hundred thousand dollars.
He put down his pen and stared at the figures, and a smile of satisfaction settled on his face. It still wasn’t enough, but it was a start. The last thing he wanted to do was diminish the quality of the production, but he had always felt the budget was far too high, and when Jake Watson, his line producer, had called from Hollywood last night his qualms had been confirmed. Jake had pointed out, and in rather colourful language, that the estimated budget of three million dollars was simply not feasible for a film of this nature.
‘I’ve always felt it wouldn’t fly,’ Victor had told him, ‘even though it was prepared by one of the top production guys in Hollywood, as you know. Maybe that’s the essence of the problem. Since the picture is being made entirely in England, there are probably many ways I can save, which he didn’t consider, perhaps wasn’t even aware of, to be really fair. I’ll try and find a way to bring it in at two million five.’
Jake, whom Victor had just signed for the project, had retorted gloomily, ‘That’s still too high. Try to cut as much of the fat off as you can. I’ll work on it over the weekend. By Tuesday I should have some new figures.’
Jake is right, of course, Victor commented to himself. Two million is nearer the mark. But how do I cut another six hundred thousand dollars? He reached for the telephone to call Jerry Massingham, the English production manager he had engaged last week, and then his hand fell away. Why disturb the man on Sunday. They were scheduled to meet tomorrow and could discuss all the relevant details at that time. There was no real emergency for the next couple of days, and between Jake, Jerry and himself, they ought to be able to pull together a more realistic set of figures. Victor wanted every detail of the project settled and as quickly as possible. With all the facts and figures at his fingertips he could move ahead at once, and negotiate from strength.
Victor took off his horn-rimmed glasses and rubbed his eyes, and then stood up and walked across the room, stretching his legs. He had been at the desk for three hours already and although his progress had been slow, the decisions both trying and difficult, the effort had been worth it. But now he wanted a break. He suddenly wished he was back in Southern California and could take a canter around his ranch. Being essentially a physical man, accustomed to spending a great deal of time outdoors, he always found desk work constraining, despite the fact that budgets and figures intrigued him.
Oddly 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 blessed 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,
