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.’
The film cut to a studio interior. Four actors in fur clothing were seated around a table. The door opened and a fifth man came in along with a handful of effects snow from a wind machine. Through the door there was a glimpse of a polystyrene ice-face and a painted back-cloth that wasn’t sufficiently out of focus. The fifth man pushed his snow glasses off his face and pulled back his fur hood. It was Marshall Stone. He’d just returned from a vacation in Nice when they shot the sequence: one of the first they did. Stone looked tanned and lean and very fit. He’d had a small hairpiece fitted for the role and he looked as handsome as he’d ever been.
‘That’s Marshall Stone, isn’t it, Nic?’
‘He looks wonderful, Jacob,’ Koolman said to Weinberger.
Weinberger said nothing. Koolman said to Nicolson, ‘Do you want to make that music a little quieter? I can’t hear myself speak.’
Nicolson twisted the offending control viciously.
On the screen Marshall Stone said, ‘Why couldn’t they find oil in Maidenhead or Cowes or somewhere decent?’
‘Now I can hardly hear the track,’ said Koolman.
‘This is just a guide track,’ explained Nicolson.
‘Maidenhead,’ said Koolman, ‘was that in the script?’
‘It’s a place near London,’ explained Lightfoot.
‘I know it’s a place near London,’ said Koolman irritably. ‘I’ve got one of my boys at Eton, haven’t I? But what about the audiences in Omaha?’
Nicolson said, ‘When we loop it, we’ll change it. Stone can say London.’
The director spoke for the first time. He was seated at the back. They were all surprised to hear his voice emerge from the gloom under the projection light. He stuttered slightly, ‘It will show. You can’t loop London into a close-up like that and have it lip-synch.’
Koolman turned around slowly. The director was a white haired old man who had promised Nicolson that he wouldn’t say a word throughout the screening.
Koolman looked at him. Koolman didn’t know much about the technical side of movie-making but he knew sufficient of the basic principles to win arguments with directors. ‘You mean you haven’t got any cover?’
‘I don’t cover everything. It would be too expensive.’
‘We
