The producer starts knocking on the doors of various studios. He's known in the industry already, and so some of those doors open, but his proposal is not always accepted. In that case, he doesn't even bother to ring up the author and invite him to lunch again, he just writes him a letter saying that, despite his enthusiasm for the project, the movie industry isn't yet ready for that kind of story and he's returning the contract (which he, of course, did not sign).
If the proposal is accepted, the producer then goes to the lowest and least well-paid person in the hierarchy: the screenwriter, the person who will spend days, weeks and months writing and rewriting the original idea or the screen adaptation. The scripts are sent to the producer (but never to the author), who, out of habit, automatically rejects the first draft, knowing that the screenwriter can always do better. More weeks and months of coffee and insomnia for the bright young talent (or old hack - there are no halfway houses) who rewrites each scene, which are then rejected or reshaped by the producer (and the screenwriter thinks: ‘If he can write so damn well, why doesn't he write the whole thing?’ Then he remembers his salary and goes quietly back to his computer.)
Finally, the script is almost ready. At this point, the producer draws up a list of demands: the removal of any political references that might upset a more conservative audience; more kissing, because women like that kind of thing; a story with a beginning, middle and an end, and a hero who moves everyone to tears with his self-sacrifice and devotion; and one character who loses a loved one at the start of the film and finds him or her again at the end. In fact, most film scripts can be summed up very briefly as: Man loves woman. Man loses woman. Man gets woman back. Ninety per cent of all films are variations on that same theme.
Films that break this rule have to be very violent to make up for it, or have loads of crowd-pleasing special effects. And since this tried and tested formula is a sure-fire winner, why take any unnecessary risks?
Armed with what he considers to be a well-written story, who does the producer seek out next? The studio who financed the project. The studio, however, has a long line of films to place in the ever-diminishing number of cinemas around the world. They ask him to wait a little or to find an independent distributor, first making sure that the producer signs another gigantic contract (which even takes into account exclusive rights ‘outside of Planet Earth’), taking full responsibility for all money spent.
And that's where people like Javits come in! The independent distributor can walk down the street without being recognised, although at media-fests like this everyone knows who he is. He's the person who didn't come up with the idea, didn't work on the script and didn't invest a cent.
Javits is the intermediary - the distributor!
He receives the producer in a tiny office (the big plane, the house with the swimming pool, the invitations to parties all over the world are purely for his enjoyment - the producer doesn't even merit a mineral water). He takes the DVD home with him. He watches the first five minutes. If he likes it, he watches to the end, but this only happens with one out of every hundred new films he's given. Then he spends ten cents on a phone call and tells the producer to come back on a certain date and at a certain time.
‘We'll sign,’ he says, as if he were doing the producer a big favour. ‘I'll distribute the film.’
The producer tries to negotiate. He wants to know how many cinemas in how many countries and under what conditions. These, however, are pointless questions because he knows what the distributor will say: ‘That depends on the reactions we get at the pre-launch screenings.’ The product is shown to selected audiences from all social classes, people specially chosen by market-research companies. The results are analysed by professionals. If the results are positive, another ten cents gets spent on a phone call, and, the following day, Javits hands the producer three copies of yet another vast contract. The producer asks to be given time for his lawyer to read it. Javits says he has nothing against him doing that, but he needs to finalise that season's programme now and can't guarantee that by the time the producer gets back to him he won't have selected another film.
The producer reads only the clause that tells him how much he's going to earn. He's pleased with what he sees and so he signs. He doesn't want to miss this opportunity.
Years have passed since he sat down with the writer to discuss making a film of his book and he's quite forgotten that he is now in exactly the same situation.
Vanity of vanities, all is vanity, and there is nothing new under the sun, as Solomon said more than three thousand years ago.
Javits watches the marquee filling up with guests and again asks himself what he's doing there. He controls more than five hundred cinemas in the United States and has an exclusive contract with another five thousand around the world, where exhibitors are obliged to buy everything he offers them, even if the films don't always work out. They know that one box-office success more than makes up for the other five that fail to pull in the crowds. They rely on Javits, the independent megadistributor, the hero who managed to break the monopoly of the big studios and become a legend in the film world.
No one has ever asked how he did this, but since he continues to give them one big success for every five failures (the average in the big studios is one blockbuster for every nine flops), it really doesn't matter.
Javits, however, knows how he became so successful, which is why he never goes anywhere without his two ‘friends’, who are, at that moment, busily answering calls, arranging meetings and accepting invitations. They both have reasonably normal physiques, not like the burly bouncers on the door, but they're worth a whole army. They trained in Israel and have served in Uganda, Argentina and Panama. One fields phone calls and the other is constantly looking around, memorising each person, each movement, each gesture. They alternate these tasks because, like simultaneous translators and air-traffic controllers, they need to rest every fifteen minutes.
What is he doing at this ‘lunch’? He could have stayed at the hotel, trying to get some sleep. He's tired of being fawned over and praised, and of having to smile every minute and tell someone that it's really not worth his while giving him his card because he'll only lose it. When they insist, he asks them gently to speak to one of his secretaries (duly housed at another luxury hotel on the Boulevard de la Croisette, where they are not allowed to sleep, but must answer the phone that rings non-stop or reply to the e-mails flooding in from cinemas all over the world, along with the promises of increased penis size or multiple orgasms that manage to elude all the spam filters). Depending on how he nods his head, one of his two assistants will either give the person the secretary's address or phone number or say that unfortunately they're fresh out of cards.
Yes, what is he doing at this ‘lunch’? He would be sleeping now in Los Angeles, however late he might have got home from a party. Javits knows the answer, but he doesn't want to accept it: he's afraid of being alone. He envies the man who arrived earlier and sat drinking his fruit juice, staring off into the distance, apparently relaxed and unconcerned about trying to look busy or important. He decides to invite him to join him in a drink, but notices he's no longer there.
Just then, he feels something prick him in the back.
‘Mosquitos! That's what I hate about beach parties.’
When he goes to scratch the bite, he finds a small needle. It must be some stupid prank. He looks behind him and, about two yards away, separated from him by various other guests, a black guy with dreadlocks is laughing loudly, while a group of women gaze at him with mingled respect and desire.
He's too tired to react to this provocation. Best let the guy play the fool if that's the only way he can impress other people.
‘Idiot.’
His two companions react to the sudden change in posture of the man they are paid to protect at the rate of $435 a day. One of them raises his hand to his right shoulder, where he keeps an automatic pistol in a holster that is entirely invisible beneath his jacket. The other man gets discreetly to his feet (they are at a party, after all) and places himself between the black man and his boss.
‘It