‘Did you pan it?’ Koolman asked.
‘Nowadays directors think only of foreground action – television directing – they can’t handle big scenes.’
‘You panned Sound of Music, didn’t you?’
‘Beautifully photographed, superbly edited, with jump-cutting at least ten years ahead of its time.’
‘Did you pan it?’
‘I can’t afford to tell my readers to go and see schmaltz.’
‘Do you think they haven’t taken their kids three times, too?’
‘They probably have. But that doesn’t mean they want me to tell them to.’
Phil Sanchez brought drinks for them: whisky and soda for Jo Stewart and tonic water for Koolman. ‘Thanks, Phil.’ Koolman grasped the girl’s arm and turned her so that he was looking directly into her eyes. In some other environment such passion might have attracted comment, but here it was strictly professional. Koolman said, ‘One of our companies did a market survey about the way people borrow money. People preferred to go to a moneylender than to a bank, even if the bank gave them easier terms. They felt inferior in a bank, they felt out of place there. But in the money-lender’s office they felt morally superior.’
Jo Stewart said, ‘That’s fascinating.’
‘You critics go to your Press shows at the nice comfortable hour of ten-thirty A.M. Champagne, lobster sandwiches…’
‘When was that?’
‘OK, but you do get a carefully matched print, a chosen track. No adverts or people coming in halfway through.’
‘Going out halfway through sometimes.’
‘You are confident and at ease. Right? You had a nice printed invite to go and you’re being paid to be there. You welcome a stimulating film and you’ll judge it in intellectual terms. You’re looking for talent. You’ll respect a film that you have difficulty in understanding and maybe you’ll give it the benefit of the doubt. Right?’
Koolman raised an admonitory finger alongside his ear. No imitation of him omitted this hand movement. With the right timing any wag could use it to raise a smile or a shudder. For Koolman’s finger jabbed at heaven suggesting that he was in close collusion with God. ‘Right?’
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